The Jade Dragon
by AlwaysEatTheRude21
Summary: Change one name, one character, and the house of cards comes tumbling down. When James Potter is wiped from the equation, Haraella Targaryen takes Harry's place. Battle weary, alone, riding upon a pregnant Ironbelly during a lightning storm, Haraella crashes into the foreign land of her mysterious father. The dragon always has three heads. Aegon VI/Fem!Harry/Viserys Jon/Daenerys
1. Prologue

_Change one name, one character, and the house of cards come tumbling down. When James Potter is wiped from the equation, Haraella Targaryen takes Harry's place. Battle weary, alone, riding upon a pregnant Ironbelly during a lightning storm, Haraella crashes into the foreign land of her mysterious father. The dragon always has three heads._

 **PAIRINGS:**

 **Aegon VI/Fem!Harry/Viserys**

 **Jon/Daenerys.**

* * *

 **PROLOGUE:**

 **CHARLIE WEASLEY**

Haraella Targaryen, or plain ol' Harry as she was widely known as amongst their people, was a… Unique individual. Given her close friendship with his younger brother Ron Weasley, Charlie thought he knew just enough about the girl to at least have some standing in stating that fact. After all, through Ron, he had seen the scrawny abused eleven-year-old flourish into a sixteen-year-old war heroin that their world, or kind, had never seen before. A heroin, who, in Charlie's eyes, a lot of them did not deserve.

Like all people, she had her bad points. From what he had personally observed, she could be downright verbally biting when she wanted to be, savage with her words, cutting to the bone of your soul with a single sentence. She was quick to temper, and what a temper it was when it blew. Violent, transcendental and blistering, like a volcano erupting during a snow storm, all lava hot retribution mixed with glacial cunning. She was also quicker to action then she was to think or plan, more often than not, plunging herself head first into life threatening danger.

That being said, the dark parts of her personality shrank in the light of her good elements. Those words that could slit your throat could also bolster you, give inspiration to the downtrodden, rally a revolution or righteous rebellion. Her temper was normally aimed at those who deserved it, a fiery shield projected out to guard those in need, be it the house elves or the whole of the wizarding world. And while she was quick to action, that action was normally in the same vein as throwing her own body in front of yours to take the killing blow.

Yes. Harry was a complex person indeed, but to say Charlie was interested in any of those facts, especially at this given moment, would be a bit of a stretch. He was only interested in one thing about Harry then. Just one. Haraella was brilliant when it came to dragons. Hence why he was waiting for her arrival, after a quick flu call to the teenager telling her his plight, sitting in a rustic pub on the outskirts of the Romanian conservation he worked in, a mug of lukewarm bitter ale sloshing around his glass.

For most of the tales of Harry's escapades with the scaly beasts, he had not been present, but he had heard of them. Oh, how he had heard of them. Hagrid's illegal Norwegian ridgeback, who had taken to Harry like a griffin to air. When the little beast had been seized from Hagrid due to its breeds outlawed black market selling, even with trainers with years upon years of experience, the small critter had put up a fight when they had tried to take it. A fight that had ended when Haraella had stepped in and only then. Of course, it could have been argued that Haraella had been at its birth, and instead of imprinting on Hagrid like their breeds dictated, it had glimpsed her first and had thought she was its mother. That incident Charlie could sweep under the rug and still feel comfortable.

But then there was the tale of the tri-wizarding tournament. A tale, which, if Charlie had not been present himself at the time to watch out for the dragon's health, he would not have believed. Haraella, as was her luck, had of course drawn the most vicious of the dragon batch, the Hungarian Horntail. Charlie thought Harry would be shook around a bit, perhaps a bit singed, and then a sleeping spell would be placed upon the dragon to get her away from it. Horntails were notoriously bad tempered, territorial and anti-social. Even trainers like himself stayed away, far away, from that breed. So, to see Harry swan in, barely five-foot-three, more interested in the dragon than the egg in which she was supposed to be after, and actually walk up to the giant creature and brazenly place a hand upon its snout, a hand it had _nuzzled_ into, well, yes… It had shocked the absolute magic out of him. Never mind that Harry had ditched the egg in favour of cutting the dragon free to go for a joy ride around the castle… Charlie was surprised none of the teachers had died from prostration. He damn well nearly did. She scored no points that round, but her face as she landed back in the arena, windswept and red from the cold air, beaming from ear to ear, made Charlie think she didn't mind too much.

Then, as if that wasn't enough, there was the Ukrainian Ironbelly that had been used to guard the Gringotts vaults. Now, Ironbelly's made Horntails look like kneazles, and the one used to guard the vaults had been through a life of abuse, fear training and unmitigated cruelty to fuel its aggression and possessive tendencies so it would do the job the goblins wanted it to do. A job it had done without fault until Harry had strolled into their bank during the war. According to Hermione, Harry had refused to leave it behind, somehow wrangled them all upon it and had flew it and them to freedom, destroying two thirds of the bank on the way out.

Harry, against everyone's knowledge, had kept the big brute hidden until the end of the war, afraid Voldemort would use it or turn it against them in the battle, or to simply protect it, she was never clear on her reasoning for hiding the dragon. When Voldemort was nothing but ashes in the wind, Harry had called in a debt from Charlie, simply asking for him to take the Ironbelly to Romania for a year or two, and by the end, she would come and get it. For what Harry had done for them all, his family especially, he had not dared to turn her down. In fact, he hadn't even thought to do so from the very beginning. Hiding a dragon for a few moon cycles was the least he could offer her. And so, exactly one year later, we come to Charlie sitting in the pub, drowning his sorrows, waiting for Haraella to arrive.

She showed up close to dusk, like a phantom the wind had blown in through the rickety door. She wasn't hard to find, she never was. She was dressed ready for a trip into the dense dragon conservation. Thick, leather trousers clung to thighs, a simple maroon linen tunic peeping out from the blackened body brace made from Thestral hide with boots to match. The gloves she wore were new, shiny, tight, like a second skin painted on. So much so, that Charlie idly wandered if she could feel the oak the pub used in its decorating through them.

Nonetheless, it was not her clothes that made her stand out, it never was. The shock of the pure, unfiltered snow-white hair was always the first to be spotted. Even if, as she had now, braided it away from her face, forcing the curling locks into a loose bun at the top back of her head. Before he had ever seen Haraella, he had always believed the Malfoys to be platinum blonde, but next to her, their hair looked like sunburnt straw.

The next thing that always grabbed the appraiser's attention would be her eyes. Charlie had heard his mother say Harry had her own mother's eyes countless times, but even he had doubts that such a vibrancy could be replicated twice. Perhaps it was her colourless hair that made them stand out so much, perhaps it was the pale skin, or the blush ghosting along her cheeks and nose, but that green _glowed._ It shone like a cat's eye, peeping out from the shadows, settling you with the unnerving feeling that you were being watched in the darkness by a predator just waiting to leap for your neck, maw open wide, fangs ready and keen. Of course, the scar was always next, the lightning bolt sitting proudly on her forehead, almost regal in the way she carried it, never hiding it behind her hair like she used to before and during the war. Now it almost seemed to be a sign of survival, victory, honour.

Before Charlie knew it, lost in his own mind, she had spotted him with slanted eyes, sidling up to his corner booth, the candle light from his table bathing her in soft yellows and oranges. Charlie gave her a smile.

"You know, in this lighting, I almost took you for a Malfoy."

She returned the gesture as he slid across his booth, flushed lips pulling back on glinting teeth, allowing her in from the side, sitting opposite him. She didn't bother to remove her gloves, only to flag down a waitress for a tankard of beer. Funny enough, the waitress tried to flirt with her, leaning over to show a generous amount of cleavage, which Harry obliviously ignored.

"You wouldn't be the first. I'm pretty sure the only reason Narcissa lied to Riddle's face was because she thought I was some distant cousin."

Her voice had changed since he had last spoke to her, not accounting for the previous flu call. Her voice had always been deep, too guttural and harsh for such a small, young girl. It had been comical in a way, like an adult was speaking through the mouth of a toddler. Yet, she had grown into that voice now. It fit her sharp features, the hooded, secretive eyes and the smile always pulling at the corners of her lips. The shadows of dimples pressing into her cheeks. It almost seemed to say that she knew something you didn't, and she found that fact hilarious. Infinitely so.

Yet, Charlie let her words soak into the air, stagnate around them. Not much was known about Haraella's father, not much at all. Well, not much Charlie had been told at least. He had not gone to Hogwarts, he wasn't recorded on any ministry registrar and no other family members had ever stepped forward to help Harry. Harry, herself, was determined not to bring him up often, but she neither did that to her mother, or about anything much unless you dragged it from her on pain of death.

"Is he…"

Was he a Malfoy? It would explain the secrecy. A Malfoy bastard would have caused a scandal, especially contending with Lily Evans being a muggleborn, along with the first wizarding war being well into full swing by the time of Harry's conception. Still, that did not explain her last name, given to her through her mother's marriage to the mystery man, nor her distinctive Malfoy but not Malfoy looks. Next to her, the Malfoys were two-bit copies, transfiguration gone wrong.

The waitress tumbled back over with Harry's beer, in which she completely ignored as she delved a hand into her messenger bag, plucked free her wallet and gave the money to the woman, who she didn't make eye contact with, too focused on looking at him with those eyes that saw too damn much.

"No. Hermione thought the same. It wouldn't be the first time a cousin got disgraced from a pureblood family and chose to change their name and begin again. Targaryen has the pompous ring the Malfoy name does, but no… He wasn't."

The waitress left with a huff at being ignored, a huff that fell on deaf ears. Just as Harry was going to shut her wallet, she seemed to think better of it as she flicked it back open, slid out a folded photo from a little pocket inside and slid it across the table towards Charlie. Charlie didn't hesitate to pick it up and unfold the old, aging photo.

"Is that him?"

The photo had obviously been spelled to be kept preserved, as when it was unfolded, no crease was left in sight. The image that greeted him was a happy one. Lily Evans in all her fiery beauty and passion stood at the side of a great oak tree, only it's trunk visible, cradling a young Harry at her hip. Even back then, at such a tender age where most babes were bald, Harry had a mop of spiralling silver white curls. She did, in fact, have her mother's eyes. Her upturned nose and blush too.

However, the man besides them, just on the other side of Harry, sandwiching the babe between the loving parents was a stranger to Charlie. His hair was long, straight, held back by a throng of leather. His hair was just as blindingly white as Harry's, but his violet eyes were deep and studious, kind even. Very kind. Harry had his pouty lips, feline dimples and sharp cheekbones. She really was the perfect mixture of her parents, taking the best from the gene pools offered.

"Aye. His name was Daeron Targaryen."

He had heard his father mention that name before, Daeron, when he dabbled too much in his fire whiskey once in a blue moon. As soon as the name was spoken, as if cursed, his mother would soundly shut his father right back up and take him from the room. Charlie had not thought much of it, normally the name was brought up in conjunction with the first order of the phoenix, the word muggle and something mumbled that Charlie had never caught. His mother having lost her brothers then, likely wanted his father not to reminisce about ghosts. _Time for bed, you need to sleep of all this whiskey._ That was what his mother would always say. But now, facing Harry, Charlie wandered if it had anything to do with whiskey or his uncles at all and not Harry's mysterious beginnings.

"He was part of the first-generation order of the phoenix, wasn't he? But isn't he a squib?"

He handed the photo back and Harry didn't even spare it a glance as she folded it back up, crammed it into her wallet and dumped the thing back into her bag.

"Yes… No… I'm not too sure to be honest. I don't know much about my father or his side of the family. I think he was a muggle. Who knows? Bit too late to ask anyone, most people who knew him are dead and the others… Well, they aren't saying jack shit."

She cut him a sharp look, final, poignant. Obviously, Arthur Weasley had let slip around Harry about his knowledge and when Harry had likely pushed for more information, either his father or mother had shut the conversation down. But why? Charlie didn't know. Harry likely didn't either, and so, questioning that further would be pointless. Instead, he turned to the blatant root of the situation. After all, Lily had family too.

"Didn't your aunt or uncle ever tell you?"

Charlie winced as soon as he had said it. Ron was quick to say stupid things, upsetting things that he already knew the answer to, but simply forgot in a moment of confusion. He had gotten that from his brother, Charlie, who had in turn, gotten it from their mother Molly. Not having a filter between brain and mouth is what Hermione called it. Charlie called it the brain shits.

It was no secret how Harry's aunt and uncle treated her. The cupboard, the verbal degradation, the times she showed up to the burrow with broken bones and bruised skin in the shapes of adult hands. His parents had wanted to take her from there, adopt her, but Dumbledore had barred them at all roads, practically making everything but the odd visit to them impossible. Now they knew why. Dumbledore had wanted a child soldier beaten, lonely and broken enough to sacrifice themselves for the few scraps of love they had been offered in their affection starved life. Aye, his family, and Harry he hazard a guess now that her rose tinted glasses had been taken off, were not the best fans of the old man who had played with too many lives.

Harry snapped him back to the real world with a noncommittal shrug of her delicate shoulders.

"My mother met him when her and her sister were already estranged. From what I understand of it all, she found him injured in some woods, half dead, muttering about a rat, a hawk and a pig. Dumbledore took a shine to him while he was healing and apparently, he was brilliant at coming up with battle strategies, ones the order often implemented. According to Sirius, it was his plans that had Voldemort on the ropes by the end of the first wizarding war. During that time, him and my mum got closer, married, had me."

Her gaze trailed away from his, down to the flickering candle melted onto their circular table. The smile that lit up her face as she travelled down memory lane was brighter and more beautiful then the sun setting outside.

"Sirius used to say I had his strategic mind but lacked his patience to implement it well. Evidently, according to Remus, I picked up my love for dragons from him too. Mum wanted to name me Harriet, you see, but aella is… Was, a family tradition for girls on his side, so they mixed the two. It worked out well enough, Haraella is a type of Orchid, so it fit well with my mother's family tradition of naming girls after plants. He was close to them, Sirius, James, Remus and Peter. It's why James was their on the night of-"

The smile dropped jarringly, like a glass plate being thrown upon pavement. The war, the loss, the death of their loved ones, were still a sore spot, especially to Harry who, Charlie thought, still often blamed herself for all the pain and demise. James Potter's needless death at Godric Hallow likely bore down heavy on her shoulders, despite her only being an infant at the time. Too much self-blame for too young shoulders. If he thought she wouldn't smack his hand away, he would have reached for her then. Instead, she shut off, leant away, folding her arms over her chest, barricading herself off, voice clipped and tone short and icy.

"Well, James was visiting, and they'd just named him and Sirius as my godfathers. Voldemort didn't like being outsmarted by a muggle who was married to a muggleborn, and so chose them as the great offenders that would birth his nemesis from that merlin damned prophecy. The rest, well, that's history."

Charlie felt like a dog with a bone, he just couldn't let go of the subject. It wasn't often Harry opened up, and when she did, he felt the urge to gain as much as he possibly could before she fully clammed those walls she built around herself cleanly and irrevocably shut.

"Aren't you curious? You could have aunts, uncles, cousins out there. Didn't your aunt and uncle or Remus and Sirius ever tell you anything more?"

Harry's jaw clenched and in her incandescent eyes, he saw the gate she had opened a slither, begin to clamp shut.

"Sirius… By the time he got out of Azkaban, his mind was never fully there. He slipped mentally, called me Daeron a few times, rambled about the 'good old days' but never gave me anything concrete. Uncle Vernon and aunt Petunia, well, I'd get more luck getting blood from stone then getting anything about my parents from them. Remus only told me he came from a land far, far, far from here. He promised to tell me more after the war… But, well, he's dead now, isn't he?"

Charlie grimaced. He would never know what it was like to not know his family, to not know where he came from, to have the only people who knew his parents, his other family, to be dead or completely unwilling to speak on the matter. He wandered if she felt lost, if in her shoes, he wouldn't be plagued by the what ifs and could haves. Still, up until a year ago, her plate had been pretty damn full and he challenged the thought that questioning anything much more but how she was going to survive the war had passed her mind.

"Shit, sorry Haraella. I didn't think-"

This time her shrug was grating and jerky. An effortless convulsion of up and down. Singular. Like a full stop.

"It's fine. It is what it is."

And the gate had closed. She quickly rubbed tiredly at her eyes, before she leaned back in, balancing her elbows on the table as she rounded on him. It was only then that he noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the weary blown pupil. How long had she not been sleeping for? Too long by the hue of purple shadowing her lashes. Her lack of sleep was likely why she had opened up as much as she had that night, and Charlie felt sort of dirty for taking advantage of that. Still, he would speak to Ron, see if they couldn't keep a better eye out for Harry on their end.

"Now, did you summon me here to interrogate me over my muddled ancestry or is there something you actually need?"

Now it was his turn to rub at his eyes before he downed the rest of his ale, wiping away the foam moustache with the back of his hand.

"Right, yeah, shit. Sorry, my mind isn't with me tonight."

Perhaps he needed a good night's sleep too. But, here they were, at the crux of the true problem. _Dragons._ He recoiled slightly, lips thinning. Harry was not going to take what he was about to say lightly, nor peacefully. Sleep, for both of them, would have to wait.

"The Ironbelly you sent over after the war-"

She cut him off without missing a beat, voice stern and unforgiving like steel, salty rust creeping in at the edges.

"Vaenora. Her name's Vaenora."

He blinked once, twice, three times. Only Haraella would name a bloody Ukrainian Ironbelly. The one breed that even conservations turned down due to their nature. The one breed completely outlawed by nearly all wizarding nations. The one breed, that of course, was as volatile as Harry herself. Yet, that was not the issue here, so he shook his head, ginger locks fluttering as he tried to clear his mind.

She had asked him for a favour of hiding the Ironbelly… Vaenora here, despite this being one of the conservations where they were barred from, and he had done so, without question. But things had gone wrong, so horribly wrong. Vincent's, a colleague of his, face flashed before his eyes. Or, more aptly, what was left of the charred remains once they had recovered his body.

"Right… Vaenora, she's causing problems."

She frowned darkly, her hands coming together to clench tightly.

"How?"

She drew the word out slowly, as if it wasn't a question but a warning to him about how he proceeded in this interaction. Charlie swallowed deeply. It was already done. He needed to tell her, he owed her that much. However, he tiptoed to the problem verbally, like testing a hot spring with his toe to see if the water would scorch him or not.

"She's killed a lot of our dragons, took a cave nest from a family of Falcon crests and she's not letting anyone or anything within a ten-mile radius of the place."

Harry scoffed and pulled away from the table, gracefully reclining into the old leather bench of their booth. Her bottomless stare fluttered away like a butterfly, spreading out to dance amongst the small patrons of the run-down pub they were in.

"Then leave her be. She needs her space-"

"She killed a conservationist yesterday. You know what happens to dragons that do that."

Execution. Death. Murder. Call it what you will, but it all meant the same. It hadn't helped the matter that Vaenora was unregistered here, illegally smuggled in, and that the death… Vincent, had been the owner's son. All factors added only ended the equation with a dragon's head free from its body. Harry's gaze snapped back to his like a rubber band, the look inside her irises prickling at his skin, stinging. Without so much as touching or looking at her drink the entire conversation, she stood from the table.

"Take me to her."

Charlie rubbed at his temples in soothing circles, but it did nothing to take the bite out of her words, her tone, this situation or the consequences of what would happen if it was found out he was the one to smuggle the Ironbelly in, not only that, but took another person to it after one death had already taken place.

"Haraella, I don't think that's a good idea. They've placed the area in quarantine-"

She was having none of it as she turned away from him, pushing out from the booth and table, speaking to him from over her shoulder.

"I'm going whether you come or not."

Then she was striding from the room and a haggard Charlie had no option but to ditch his well-earned drink to catch up with her.

* * *

 **Two Hours Later.**

Even in the inky, musty cave, the Albino Ukrainian Ironbelly shone in the darkness like the northern star, leading sailors home. Or, more fitting, led poor trainers, dragons and conservationists to their deaths. Even though it was still young in terms of it's breed, still in teenage-hood in comparison to the human life span, the beast was huge and still growing. It's defensive back spines brushed the top of the cave, it's folded wings could knock down buildings if it flew too close and from the tip of it's muzzle to the small bone hammer at the end of its tail, would take a full minute to walk the length of… And it still had twenty years more growth in it.

To be fair to Harry, she had done a good job with the dragon. She visited often, before the incident with the conservationist had happened where she had been kept away with ministry work, and her involvement with the dragon could be spotted. When Charlie had first saw the poor thing, it was malnourished, ribs prominent, wings partially transparent, not a good health sign in a dragon. Its skin had been ghostly white, dirty looking, from the lack of sunlight and its eyes had a thin milky film over them, hinting at blindness. Even to Charlie, the poor thing was too far gone to do much more than to make it comfortable for its oncoming death. He had never been more wrong. Now, those bones were covered by thick, ropey muscle, it's stomach was no longer concaved, but protruded healthily, perhaps a little too healthily. Its wings became meaty once more, and its skin was no longer that dusty grey-white, but a brilliant silver, just on the cusp of Albinism.

Through the long, arduous trek to the outer laying cave in the conservation, Charlie had been sure the beast would have swooped in at any given moment, razed them with dragon's breath, sliced them with it's serrated claws or plucked them from the earth to devour in the sky. It had done so with everything else that had gotten too close.

But, then again, anything else was not Haraella Targaryen, and she, with confidence Charlie had seen lacking in all other dragon handlers, himself included, had marched pointedly through the conservation, right to the caves entrance and had entered without so much of a second thought of her health or possible death. When dealing with beasts that ran on instinct, who were legendarily vicious, a douse of appreciative fear and caution did well in their line of work. Harry didn't have a smidgen of either and he questioned if that was her secret to getting so close to dragons, to handling them so well. Maybe they could smell the fear crisping on their skin, and Harry's confidence made her seem bigger and badder than the dragon thought they could handle.

Still, he wondered why it had not attacked. Perhaps it was full, perhaps it had gotten injured and died, perhaps it was sleeping too deeply. However, as he saw it's yellow and orange eyes staring out, straight at them, as its nostrils flared with quaking breathes, he knew it had smelled them coming from miles off. Furthermore, it was only Harry's presence that had stopped the onslaught it would have bequeathed a lone Charlie. It stood as much as it could in the cave and slithered forward like a giant snake. Charlie instinctually skidded backwards. Harry, However, met it step for step at the entrance of the cave.

She clashed with it's muzzle as it nudged her, gentle, long fingered hand coming up to stroke at the larger, jagged scales lining its slit mouth. In return the beast nudged her again, head tilting as the lip curled back as it displayed its sword like teeth, needle thin and arm long.

"I know girl… I know. I shouldn't have left for so long."

A ground trembling rumble echoed from its cavernous chest in answer as Harry brushed along to it's face, leaning in to nuzzle her own cheek against the start of it's neck, right before the spines began to protrude. Charlie knew she wasn't speaking to him, and her soft, dulcet voice, tinged with worry and melancholy made him feel like a leacher intruding on an exceptionally private moment. However, he just couldn't turn away. No one had ever gotten so close to an Ironbelly before. No one.

"I had to. I was building us a home down on the Mongolian plains. Big, open spaces. All the goats you could eat. Blue skies and rolling field of green and yellow… You'd like that, wouldn't you? Just you, me and the open plain skies."

Somehow, someway, it seemed to understand what she was saying as it rumbled once more, softer this time, almost like a feline purr as it wiggled out of the entrance of the cave, curling its body protectively around Harry. Harry's language cut off into something shiny, slick, like scales. Parseltongue Charlie would guess, though he had never heard the language spoken before. The beast liked it more than Charlie did, more than the human tongue as it trilled, and its great wings shivered in delight, neck spines flaring and presenting.

All Charlie could do was watch, transfixed upon such a contrary picture, as Harry stroked and spoke her way to the monstrous dragon's belly, leaning fully against it, ear pressed to scales, hands flat on the rounded surface, muttering to the dragon in that damned language that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Every time the great sky worm breathed, it's belly extended, rocking Harry back and forth. On the seventh breath, Harry beamed a grin almost as bright as the dragon scales she was clinging to, almost as shiny as her white hair. Finally, as if remembering he was there, she cut her gaze to him, smile never faltering.

"She's pregnant."

Charlie, however, did mentally fumble.

"What?"

Ironbelly's were not easy to mate, the female normally killed off the father after the job was done, and any suitors that didn't take their fancy. They were also one of only two breeds who birthed live young… Live, ravenous young that would flood to the skies in an attempt to feast, the colossal mother leading the way in a month-long frenzy of destruction. The gestation period for Ironbelly's was a bit shady, having hardly ever been observed, but Charlie was sure it fell somewhere between two and three years. Two years of territorial, possessive and ruthless behaviour from the pregnant dragon. Breeding Ironbelly's was strictly outlawed, their litters were too big, too hungry and too viscous to cultivate.

Harry didn't seem to care about any of these factors as she slinked back up to the dragon's head, running a hand underneath its jaw to pat and stroke there. Once again, the beast that had razed the area around them, burned his friend to a charred crisp and slaughtered most other dragons that crossed its path leaned into Harry's hold like a house cat.

"She's pregnant. That's why she's being more territorial. Why she's taken the cave. She wants a dark, secluded place to birth in and this cave is perfect for that. So, call off the hangmen. It wasn't her fault. They trespassed-"

Charlie lost it. The Ironbelly's strange behaviour around Harry, Harry's excitement of the news, the death of his colleague, the lack of sleep. He couldn't handle much more.

"You know that it's too late for that! She's killed a man! Not only that, she's already killed a fifth of the dragons in this sanctuary. Breeding of her type is outlawed, they normally get sterilised. This conservation is not a playground for-"

Harry pulled away from the dragon, face cast in savage shadow as she strolled towards him. Out of the over hang entrance of the cave and in the small field before it, the Dragon had enough room to stand tall, which it did, still curling around Harry defensively, barring down upon him with imperious eyes. His heart skipped a beat at the image the pair created.

"So, you're going to kill her? She's a dragon, not a human! You can't put your morals and sense of justice upon her or her kind. You can't do this, she's pregnant. Ironbelly's are endangered already, this birth could mean-"

"It's too late Harry! The head handler has already signed the papers and put his foot down. The sentencing team and executioner will be out here come sunrise. Do you not think I've not had the same argument with him, even before I knew she was pregnant? He won't move."

Harry became marble, all hard edges and carven featured as she milled around what he had said. Then he blinked and the spell was broken. Silently, the Dragon unfurled, pressed its belly close to the ground and used its extended tail to act like a step to its neck. Harry stood upon it and was lifted to it's back, settling between two of the front spinal rods. She shot him an unwavering look as she bent at the waist to grab at the neck spines like they were reigns.

"Then she will."

She spoke in Parseltongue, in what sounded like one elongated word with a harsh hiss at the end. The dragon shot up to a stand, hind legs digging into the floor, claws gauging lines in the soft ground, just as it's front arms began to lift from the ground, spreading so wide Charlie had to duck, he finally caught up to what Harry meant.

"Harry… What are you-… Harry, no! You can't just-"

"I can and I will. She's not just a dragon Charlie! She's…"

She was going to run with the bloody thing! What was she thinking? Dragon's were not pets. If it got hungry enough, despite their weird connection, Charlie didn't doubt it wouldn't eat her. Nonetheless, any stupor Charlie was feeling at this sudden turn of events bled into pity mixed with profound empathy that ached in his sternum. Her face had become drawn, lips tight and pressed together, eyes wide and clear, as if she knew this was the ending all along. They both knew what would happen if she took flight. She would have broken Ministry law, the stealing of a dragon, an animal that counted as a weapon of mass destruction, would lead her to a jail cell if she was caught and the dragon dead. She had no excuse of war to blame this time, and the Wizengamot were always out for her throat. By doing this, she was giving them the perfect excuse to come at her in full force.

"Do you know why I'm good with dragons? It's not because I'm a Parselmouth, it's because I can feel them. _Feel them._ Inside, right in my chest, in my mind, in my heart. Beat for beat, we have the same pulse. I understand them, I can sense them, see through their eyes and they can see through mine. Me and Vaenora are not two different beings, not really. She's me and I'm her."

She straightened out, the frenzied look in her eye died to a cinder, she took a deep breath and Charlie saw the determination and resolve solidify over her skin, as if she had been dipped in cast iron. Nothing he would say would change her mind, he knew that now. Yet, he needed to know why she would throw everything away, a life in Britain, for a broken dragon of all things. She seemingly read his mind.

"Vaenora is alone, she's hurt, she's scared, she always has been… Just like me. It's why I couldn't leave her behind at Gringotts, why I risked the war to steal a dragon, because when I look into her eyes I only see myself reflected back and I can't let you or the conservation do this. Not to her. I won't let the her die for the sake of 'betterment' for others like the wizarding world let me. She's _my_ dragon. _Mine._ And like hell will I let anybody hurt her or her children."

It was because she saw herself, the her in the cusp of a war not of her own making. In a poetic sort of way, she was trying to give the dragon a life she had never been given, by cutting it free when others would kill or chain it. She was doing what had never been done for her. Perhaps, if she succeeded, even with the odds stacked against them, she would have freed herself too. Charlie couldn't bring himself to argue with her any longer, not when knowing her motivation, but he could still try reasoning with her. The fact of the matter was it wasn't safe to fly or ride, not tonight.

"Harry, don't! There's a storm due and-"

But it was too late, his warning was muted by Haraella's hissing tongue and the ear-shattering thump and thrum of the dragon's wings flapping and beating. The trees around them careened and croaked, the grass pressed flat and Charlie himself skidded back from the force of the wind the dragon's flight had created. He raised his arm to guard his face from the dirt kicked up into the air, peeping below his forearm to spot Harry and the dragon rise higher and higher before they shot into the sky. The dense clouds that were rolling into the night, drowning and swallowing the moon and stars devoured them whole as they dipped into them. His arm flopped to his side like a wet noodle.

There, up in the black sky, the first round of lightning flashed terribly, painting the sky in electric hues of blues and soft purples. The light was just enough to give Charlie one last ominous glance at Haraella's and the Dragons silhouettes, mid-flight, dancing through the sky before the dark gloom consumed them once more.

* * *

 **A.N:** I know, I have so many other stories to be getting to, but this plot bunny has been hounding my mind for months. Months! And it was driving me insane. Don't worry, I won't be ignoring my other stories, but this one has just been begging to be wrote up and I couldn't ignore it any longer. (For good or for worse, it' here now XD). Plus, I've been a bit unwell lately and writing this up is slowly letting me slide back into things, so please, if you're waiting for an update, please be patient.

 **QUICK NOTES ON THIS CHAPTER AND THE STORY:**

1\. The name Vanora means white wave, which I thought was a pretty good fit for the Ironbelly.

2\. Daeron Targaryen is an actual Targaryen from the books and show. He was the mad king Aerys's youngest brother. He was originally betrothed to Olenna Tyrell, but the betrothal was broken. There's different stories about that, one is Daeron broke it off for unknown reasons, the other was he was actually closer to Ser Jeremy Norridge and 'preffered' his company and Olenna herself says she cut the betrothal off because she couldn't stand the thought of marrying a Targaryen. So, while that is hazy, he's death isn't. In the books, he died squashing a rebellion lead by people only known as the rat, the hawk and the pig. Of course, in this fic… He didn't exactly die on that battlefield.

3\. I wanted to challenge myself a little with this fic. As I'm an avid Fem!Harry fanfic writer, I find myself falling into a crux of repetition. I wanted to break that with this fic. So, while the whole story centres on Harry, I'm actually going to try not to touch her P.O.V. So… This should be interesting! XD Let's see if I can pull this off, shall we?

4\. Daenerys is not going to have the dragon eggs in this fic… Wait! Hold up! Don't click away just yet XD. In no way, shape, or form am I going to be down playing her character. She's one of my favourites and I couldn't do that to my Khaleesi! However, this is just the path that I think fits best with this fic, and so, I'm exploring it a little. If this doesn't sound like your cup of tea, I don't blame you, but give it a little chance first. I may just surprise you!

5\. I'm taking heavy inspiration from BOOK VISERYS, not the show version. If you haven't read the books, there is quite a big difference between the two. XD

 **Well, that's it for now. This is only the prologue, so expect more in-depth chapters to come. If you could, please leave a review. I want to see if this plot bunny has actually taken me somewhere other than a big, cold ditch of 'what the fuck is this?!' XD. Until next time, stay beautiful! ~** _ **AlwaysEatTheRude21**_


	2. Just One More Time

_**VERY IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ:**_ I am holding my hands up. I made a mistake, a pretty big one (cue blushing.), that I do need to address. Luckily, I hadn't written it into the story yet, but made a bit of a fool of myself in the Authors note. I mixed up Aerys's (mad king) child Daeron, who died very young (perhaps even a still birth, I can't quite remember) with Aerys's uncle, Daeron who was the one who died in the rebellion, somehow, out of this, I came up with the label brother (please don't ask, even I don't know how I mixed it up that bad XD)

However, I am rectifying it this chapter by taking a clue from the directors and writers from the Game of Thrones T.V show, and mixing the two characters together. If they can cut out young Griff, do Stannis over like they did and have Rhaegar name both his sons Aegon even though in the continuity Rhaegar still believed Aegon as being alive by the time of Jon's birth/conception, I can mix two Targaryen's together into one being. So, Daeron the uncle and Daeron who died as a child will be the same Character, though I'm having him as Daeron the child who just accomplishes what Daeron the uncle did. So, If I've actually gotten it right this time, that puts Haraella in the same generation as Aegon and Jon, with Viserys and Daenerys being her uncle and aunt. I hope this makes sense and I really am sorry about making the mistake, but damn, does George go in depth and their names are all so similar lol.

I've also played with everyone's ages a little, just because it fits in better with what I want to happen and hey, this is Fanfiction, if you want a perfect replica of Game of Thrones… Read the fucking books XD. Viserys is twenty one here, Daenerys is seventeen, Aegon will be Eighteen and Jon Snow will be Sixteen too along with Haraella.

* * *

 **VISERYS P.O.V**

Viserys lovingly ran his thumb over the bejewelled circlet, spiralling around the centre emerald. Green had been his mothers favourite colour. This delicate, twisted, silver and emerald convergence had been his mother's crown. The last heirloom he had of their family. Of his dear mother. The others, all their wealth and trinkets and heirlooms centuries, no, millennia old had already either been stolen after Ser Willem Darry's death by scavenging servants, or traded for scrap coin by Viserys himself. Scrap coin Viserys had later traded for bread and food to stave off starvation for him and his little sister while they were in exile.

He had always told himself the same thing. _Just one more. Just one._ Just one more loss, just one last trade, just one more degradation, just one last forfeiture of what little bit of home he had left and the coin would be enough to see them through. He would find a lord who truly believed in him and his claim. Daenerys would have a safe house to grow in while he planned his reclamation of Westeros, then… Then they could go home. Finally. But it was never just one more. And now, here he was, standing in the middle of a crowded, narrow market street in the city of Volantis, seconds away from selling the last piece of home to a grubby, gummy, balding market crone for what would likely be for less than three gold dragons. There would be no lord, no house, no long-term money, no grand recovery of their ancestral seat. Their throne. Home.

 _The Beggar king_. That is what they called him, wasn't it? He loathed that name, detested it, and yet, he could never fully argue against the label. He had begged. He had scrounged. He had bounced from lord's house to lord's house to run down inn to anyone that would take them in, even but for a week. What would his family think of him, think of their legacy, their name, if they could see him now?

He could picture them vividly. His beloved mother, Rhaella Targaryen, with her beauty and soft words, silken and graceful, sneering at her sons tatty and rat bitten clothes, boots with holes in them, a threadbare scarf wrapped around his head like a turban to hide his distinct Targaryen hair in the case of one of the usurpers assassins having found them once more, or a willful Sellsword wishing to try his luck in cashing in his and Daenerys's bounties. She had always been so proud of her own silver locks, his too, taking extra care to comb the knots out. Now he hid it when in public in fear of being noticed. Hid his heritage as if it was something dirty. Oh, how his mother would cry if she could see him.

His strong father, Aerys, who had bowed and begged to no one. Even that traitorous cunt, Tywin, had never gotten his father to ask for anything. Of course, he had heard the stories of his father, had heard the whispers of the 'mad king'. In truth, Viserys had been young, kept protectively away by his mother, watched and looked after in those tender eight years he had spent at home, to really have spent much time with the man. But, even if they weren't just stories conjured by the usurper to cement his own claim to their throne, he was his father, his blood ran through Viserys's veins, and to hear the vile things spoken of him, to play witness to the butchery of his character after his death, was something no son or daughter should have a part in. Where were the whispers and the stories and the hatred when he had been alive? No where to be found. Instead, Viserys had earned his own moniker like his father had, that of beggar, and that left a bitter, coppery taste on his tongue.

His honourable, most loved brother Rhaegar. With his valour, chivalry and dreams of a better world. The man who could sing crowds to tears… If he could read Viserys's mind right now, see the darkest parts of his soul, Rhaegar would cry for him in turn. The thoughts, the dreams of the Baratheon bloodshed he would release upon the world once he sailed across the sea, the bitter stone of resentment that was growing inside of him, the hatred… He had hit Daenerys yesterday. He. Had. Beaten. Her. His brother, precious, saint-like Rhaegar would have never done such a thing. He had not meant to, not really. The anger, it was too much for one person to bare. It seared inside of him, burning from the inside out, and for the first time, he had cracked.

After another day of prowling the streets looking for a roof to sleep under only to end up with a cramped room of an inn that played equal part brothel, needing somewhere safe to sleep after an extremely odd lightning storm had graced their shores, violent and wrathful, after the last crumb of bread had been eaten, Dany asking for more when there was no more, no more coin to buy more, after another failure… He had swung his arm back and slapped her soundly across the face. She had fallen to the ground, clutched her reddening cheek, he had been shocked, reached for her, she had flinched, and he had run from the room like a coward, unable to face what he was slowly but surely becoming.

His second oldest brother, Daeron, would have grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him back into that damned inn room. Daeron, who, even at eighteen, had lead a squashing defeat against a small rebellion of some upstarts nicknamed the Rat, the Hawk and the Pig. Daeron, who had never been afraid of anything, too bold his mother had said, who had fought valiantly for their family, only to go missing on the battlefield, body lost amongst the masses likely, presumed dead. Daeron was no coward, he never ran, he faced what was coming with a smile and a reassuring wink.

Viserys had ran, and he was older than Daeron had been when he had gone missing, or died, having skimmed past his Twenty-first name day just last month. He had run from Kings Landing with his mother, from Dragonstone with Daenerys and Ser Willam, from Braavos with Daenerys, even now, he was always running, paranoid that the Baratheon usurper had sent his men to finally finish the job. Yes, if his family could see him now, they would be disgraced. He knew he was. His legacy, the Targaryen legacy, under him had become nothing but synonymous with _beggar, bastard and brute._

His fingers clenched around the crown, that heat in his belly flaring viciously, lapping at the skin of his throat, threatening to spill forth like dragon's breath. Some days, he hated them. His dead family. Gone. Leaving him to this. Nothing but this. Some days he hated himself. He was weak. He was paranoid, unnecessarily vicious… madness… He could feel it's oily tendrils slipping over his brain and there was nothing he could do about it, no way to make them recede. That was the worst, feeling your own mind fracturing, falling to pieces, and scrambling to hold it together but failing. Self-awareness was a double edged sword.

Some days, he hated Dany too. She had killed their mother, ate too much for the money they had, grew too fast for the clothes he managed to find or was gifted by a presumptuous lord looking for a later date payback, was too young and naive to stay in the places they could afford. Most days, he loved them all, so much so it hurt to think of them, to picture what they thought of him now. Those were the good days, the days where those spindly little fingers of darkness weren't clouding his eyes. Those were the days he lived for, the pain of their memory made him feel alive. There had to be a reason he was here and they had crossed to the seven. It couldn't be luck. No. It had to mean something, or going home, avenging his family, that would mean nothing too.

"That's a pretty crown. Too pretty for the money she will be offering you for it, at least."

The dulcet voice danced out just behind him, to his left. Viserys's head lurched around, eyes wide at the interloping voice. She was a small thing, barely taller than his sister Daenerys. Her clothes were in a state, much like the street urchins running between marketeer's legs, snatching purses. The leather trousers, an odd choice for Volantis's climate, were burnt looking, crispy and frayed, as if she had been in a great fire recently, standing in the flames for it to lap and lick at her toned legs. The black body brace she wore, scaly boots and shiny gloves were in good condition, nearly miraculously untouched, unlike the maroon tunic she wore underneath.

The garment was in tatters, one arm completely ripped off at the seams, the long pale arm on show was bloody, clawed, and at the crux of her elbow, it even had a thin twig of driftwood embedded in it. The bottom of her tunic, where he guessed it had once been long enough to flutter at her knees, had been crudely sawn off, threads frayed and burnt too. The material that had been ripped from the bottom was now neatly wrapped around her head, one swift edge sweeping across her pale face, pinned to the side by a rusty metal nail as if it was playing at being an ornate hair pin. The only skin available to see from her head and neck was a rectangular window around her eyes, the makeshift headscarf covering the rest, features and expression completely shielded from any gazer. From her pale skin, he guessed it was to keep the harsh Volantis noon sun away from blistering her, to keep the dry, cloying dirt of the streets from strangling her breath.

Her eyes, however, were bright and alive. Green. So green. Unnatural. All burning Wildfire captured in glass. Untameable Wildfire that was singled in on his mother's crown, not even sparing him a single glance in the eye. His fingers protectively tightened around the circlet. He almost wanted to automatically single the girl out as just another street urchin. A pauper entranced by precious metal and gems. She was young, there was no doubt about that, but she had enough curves to hint at a blossoming adulthood. And although she was young, haggard and looking poverty stricken, the way she held herself contradicted what his eyes saw. She stood tall, her presence larger than her small frame, almost too large for the street to handle. Her shoulders were confidently held back, spine sleek and unbent by life's hardships. Her hands were casually at her side, one playing with a tip of what looked like a carven twig strapped to her thigh, the other was playing idly with the leather throng of her side satchel. Her accent too, words well spoken, pronunciation distinct and smooth spoke of a good, wealthy upbringing. She looked so carefree, playful perhaps and yet, regal and battle ready, in a way.

Viserys's jaw clenched. Was she mocking him? Mocking his mothers crown? What right did she have? What right did any of them have? _Beggar king._ He would show them. One day… One day. Until then, he scowled, lip curling up over his front teeth as he purposefully composed a disdainful look as he skimmed her up and down.

"And you think you can offer more?"

Her head cocked to the side, a flash of a frown falling upon her eyes before it smoothed back out and Viserys, for the split moment it was there, thought he saw a flash of white brow, but it was gone before he could fully form the thought or really look. Just a trick of the light. She was heavy lidded, that was all, he just saw more skin. Her voice dropped an octave as she spoke, slowly, apologetically.

"I didn't mean-"

With her head cocked, he got a better look at the side of her head. The maroon linen tunic masquerading as a headscarf hid it well, but a flowering splodge of blood was leaking through the material, right at the temple, darkening the colour. He had believed he had a harsh day and night previously, the lightning storm having stolen all his sleep from him, but obviously, not as harsh as some. She looked like she had rolled through a great fire, fell off a cliff and then went barrelling through the sea.

The sight of the blood at her temple, the returning glance he cast at her battered arm, her height resemblance and guilt of what he did to Daenerys yesterday still plaguing his mind, he did not know the reason for the inexplainable worry that nibbled at the back of his eyeballs, nor the gut churning twist his stomach took, but his actions leapt forth before he could think it through. He took a lone step forward, closer, the crown in his hand forgotten as he subconciously shoved it into the safety of his own sachel, cutting her off.

"You're bleeding. Are you injured badly?"

Her eyes watched him closely, digging through his bag, before she stiffened slightly, her arms crossing over her chest as she threw her gaze out to the crowd around them resolutely, soaking in the people. He did not know why she would not look at him in the eye, outrightly refused to, and furthermore, why that action and thought felt acidic in his already dry throat. But it did. It burned. Just like her Wildfire eyes. Her voice turned consciously casually, forcedly calm, placidly respective. Either way, it was an act. Viserys had not survived, helped his sister survive, in exile, alone, for as long as he had without spotting a play when he was presented with one.

"No. No… I… It's fine. I was _riding_ through the storm last night, I took a bit of a tumble. My… _Horse_ is fine, that's what matters… Nothing a good night's rest won't fix. Perhaps… Do you know if I'm anywhere near Mongolia?"

Lies, but not lying. Hiding the secrets with empty truths. People where less inclined to spot a truth then they were a lie, and equally, they were less inclined to dig further into that truth to spot what it was hiding. What an odd skill to have at what… Sixteen? Yes, she was around that age, he could tell. Just a bit younger than his own sister, Daenerys. Still, his frown pulled in tighter, knotting at the centre of his brows, scrunching tightly at the corners of his lips.

"Munfolio? I believe you've hit your head harder than you believe."

Perhaps she was dazed from the blow to her head, as she gave a jilted nod, eyes wandering before they fell to the low rising wall of a market stall close to them, edging to the object to run a curious gloved hand over the flaking surface, her injured arm still hanging loosely at her side. She pulled the appendage away, fingers swiping along each other, watching the purple dust puffed into the air. Her eyes widened as if she had never seen anything like Qarth sea stone before. As soon as the dust was gone, she went back to wondrously looking around her surroundings, eyes darting from object to building to person and back again.

"I didn't think so. The buildings here are ever so strange, the people too. I mean, is that a blue haired woman wearing golden chainmail over her face? Why is there a statue of a man with a fish face? What does that symbol mean? The one on the building over there? It looks like a donkey riding a spider…"

The woman, or more aptly, the prostitute was of Tyroshi origins, the expensive, transparent golden and red dress screamed that fact. The statue at the middle of the market cross roads was a symbol of the docks, leading travellers to the ships, an old fabled omen to protect the fishermen who slaved down there and to bring them luck when they came to the market to sell their goods. And the symbol that had seemingly mystified the young woman was nothing but a lord's mark, lord Sylerio if he was not mistaken, telling visitors to the brothel that the building and the women inside were his, and it would be to him they answered if any was broken beyond repair or over the amount of coin they offered. All this was well known to those of Essos… Which meant she was a traveller herself. A wanderer from a far land if she did not even know what a lord's symbol looked like. Or, that bump to her head was more profound than Viserys had first thought.

"Perhaps you should sit down. Here."

Perhaps he had taken a hit to his own head without noticing, for why should he care what happened to a pauper? Why was he still conversing with her? What did it matter to him, Dany, their continued survival, or their plans if the girl was injured? It couldn't… It shouldn't… It did. Somehow, someway, it did. Viserys's, for once, could not explain the logic behind it, could not fathom half of it himself, but he knew it in his gut just as much as he had Targaryen blood coursing through his veins. _It matters._ A little voice inside of himself, in the very recess of his mind, spoke up. Strangely, he thought of Daeron. He saw a flash of his brother smiling at him from the sept of Baelor, bright and colourful, on the back of his eyelids as he blinked.

He took the last step forward, close enough to reach for her good arm, which he did, to try and lead her to a barrel by the wall she had been inspecting, so she could rest and gain some baring. Perhaps even take of that headscarf so he could see just how badly she had hit her head. That wouldn't happen as she snapped to, taking a step back, away from his approaching hand, eyes hard and locked on his spread fingers, tone glacial.

"I'm fine. I'm not the one standing in the middle of a market street with a face like thunder holding out a bejewelled crown for all to see and snatch if their bravery pushes them so."

His own arm recoiled back to his torso, teeth locking together. The voice of Daeron died in his mind, the memory of that day in the Sept of Baelor where Daeron had taught him of the seven, regaling a young Viserys with the tale of the Stranger, bubbled forth.

" _Why does the Stranger matter at all? Why do we pray to him when he takes from us?"_

 _Daeron crouched down to his level so he could look at a tottering Viserys in the eye, smiling, dimples on full show._

" _Because death is inevitable. It is as inevitable as your next breath. We all die. The goal is not to live forever, but to create something that will. And what is it that will outlive us, Viserys?"_

 _A young Viserys shuffled in his boots, gaze drawn to the floor as he shrugged. Daeron laid a soft hand upon his shoulder drawing his gaze back to his brother._

" _Family. Our family will continue on long after us, because of us, because of what we do with our lives before the Stranger calls us home. Do you see now? It is why the Mother and the Stranger are placed facing each other in their circle. The mother gives us life, the Stranger takes it, but both gives us what we need to keep our family strong. Family is the only thing that matters in life. Promise me you will never forget that, Viserys."_

 _A young Viserys didn't see. He didn't understand, not at the time, but he had nodded and promised. Two weeks later, Daeron rode out to disband the rebellion and had been lost. The stranger had called and took his brother… But they lived on. Their family stayed strong. Their name solidified._

Viserys blinked and the memory was gone. All that was left was bitterness. The Stranger had called again after that, and again, and again, until it was just him and Daenerys and look at their family now? Weak and exiled. Viserys snapped at the young woman.

"I am selling it."

She was back to staring at the crowd around them, as if it was a puzzle piece that she couldn't place the picture to. He almost wanted to scream at her, grab her by the shoulders and shake her. _Look at me! Look me in the eye! Look. At. Me._ Instead, she only breathed, the cloth concealing her mouth puffing out slightly from the air as she began to speak once more.

"It seems precious to you."

Daenerys was precious to him too, life was also. If he did not sell the crown, no matter how he was loathed to do so, he would not have coin, without coin, they would not have food or shelter and then the Stranger would knock upon their door once more. For the final time. _Just one more time._ The memory of home, instead of actual evidence of it that he could hold and stroke, will have to tide him over until he established his claim and gained an army. It was just a crown. Nothing more. He just had to keep telling himself so.

"Coin is too. So, are you interested in the crown or not?"

She shrugged offhandedly.

"I'm more interested in a place to sleep for the night and a map."

The fire was back in the pit of hit stomach, his hand clenched so hard he was sure he could feel blood bubble upon his palm. The bastard pauper had been wasting his time. Time he could have been using to gain more coin, to sniff out another lord who was willing to hear him out, to find shelter should he fail again. Stiffly, he swiveled so his back was to her and began to march away. He had gained a good few feet before she popped out of a stall in front of him, just behind a wooden pole that held the clothe shade up, nearly scaring him to death. She was quick and light on her feet, he would give her that. He glanced behind him to the spot she used to be in before scowling at her once more. How did she get in front of him without his notice? Strangely, he had the odd thought that she was smirking at him from underneath her scarf.

"However, I'll tell you what. You tell me of a place I can sleep in, that has some food and help me find a map of this place, and I'll give you more money than you can ever hope to get for that crown from the old woman. Or, anyone else in this bazaar for that matter."

The scowl turned to a weary appraisal.

"What game are you playing?"

There was that damned shrug again.

"Nothing… Just show me a coin. The type of coin you want."

Viserys only had one on him. A lone gold dragon hidden in the flaps of his own sand dirty, well worn tunic. He refused to spend it, couldn't bring himself to. They would need it for an emergency, just like they had in Lys, where they had to pay a cart driver to hide them in the hay of his cart to leave the city in the dead of the night when a Sellsword had spotted Daenerys's hair from their inn window. He had been brave enough to try and cash in the bounty upon their heads, and Viserys was sure others would be too.

But then this peculiar, contradictory girl held her hand out for him to place the coin in, stance easy and loose limbed, calm, and his abdomen churned once more, Daeron's ghost haunted his mind, his eyes prickled, and he found himself reaching into the hidden flap to place the gold dragon upon her open palm.

As soon as his fingers left, her own tightened around the coin before she brought it close to her face. She played with it, turning it this way and that way, eyes slit and narrowed as she watched the sun glint off the golden surface. Suddenly, she nodded, flipped the coin to him which he had to scramble to catch and delved her own hands, both, into her satchel. He thought he heard a faint popping sound, like pebbles clashing against each other, before the noise stopped and she was bringing both hands out of the bag again.

They were cupped together like one would cup their hands in water to splash their face with in the morn, they had to be to hold the amount of coins she had lifted out. A small mountain of golden dragons shone in the space separating them as she straightened her arms, offering the gold to him.

"Is this enough?"

How? What? But her clothes… His speech mirrored that of his jumbled mind, leaping from one thought and word to another.

"I… What… How… Yes… Yes!"

He held his own hands out and watched with wide eyes as she poured the coins into his palms before dusting her gloved hands together. She spotted the twig in her arm, huffed, and plucked it straight out without a flinch, flicking the small stick away from her. Still, Viserys was more focused on the coins he had. They were warm, as if newly minted, but they were real. The weight, the smell, the feel of the gold… They were real. He was still lost when she began to speak again, this time more airy, lively, jovial.

"I'll pay you more after a good night's sleep and if I don't wake up to my throat being slit. I'll also triple that if you find me a map."

He couldn't help it, he laughed. Hard. True. Unrestrained laughter that hurt his chest. It was raspy, broken, dry, as if his body had forgotten how to do the action. In truth, he could not remember the last time he had laughed, not fully. The sound was joined by another chuckle, hers more light and birdlike then his own. It was in that moment, laughing by a fruit stall with its seller distracted by customers, sun blazing down upon them, that the young women finally looked him in the eye. Her laughter stopped instantaneously. His own took the length of what she said next to die heavily in his throat.

"You're eyes… Purple… I've never met another person…How…"

He froze from cramming the coins into his own bag, one or two stragglers falling to the floor in his shock. She knew his eyes. She knew the colour, and that colour meant something to her by the way her eyes would not leave his now that she had finally looked upon them. There could only be one reason she would know his eyes. She knew what and who a Targaryen was. If that was the case, she could be a spy… A Baratheon assassin… A sellsword… Either which way, her knowing what he was, was not a good sign. His hand went straight from his bag to the dagger at his side, fingers coiling around its leather handle.

"Who are you?"

It was a demand. She didn't miss a heartbeat as she fired one right back.

"What colour is your hair? Take the turban off."

His heart picked up its pace, his feet hankered down into the sand and the sound of his dagger sliding free from its scabbard rang eerily clear in the bustling market place. One more chance. _Just one._

"Who. Are. You."

From the strap on her thigh, she pulled the knobbly, carven stick free, as if it had any chance of guarding her from his dagger. Yet, as she lifted it, her own grip tight and unforgiving, she held it as if it held the power of the sun and moon and the stars themselves. Anger took up root in her eyes, Wildfire clawing at the surface of her skin. A flash of Daeron glaring at Ser Jaime Lannister imprinted itself on the back of his eyelids, a memory he had no idea he had ever had, intersecting with the fire and fury that was in front of him.

"I am Haraella Targaryen, daughter of Lily and Daeron Targaryen… Who are you?"

The world span and then stopped, swimming, air thick, ground unstable, sun blinding him. Anger devoured him, crunching his bones, gnawing his muscles to mush, fire lapping at his blood. He broke like he often did when face with anger, irrevocably. He jabbed his dagger towards her, she didn't so much as quiver, and he rambled.

"The Targaryen's are dead. Daeron died many years ago… Dead. How dare you use his name! All the Targaryen's are dead!"

Dead. Gone. And he was left alone, here, to witness their names being used in such nefarious ways. He was seconds away from lunging at the brat who had dared invoke his lost brothers name when she angrily reached up to unhook the rusty nail from the scarf. The material fell away, the breeze fluttering it slightly. He was bombarded with ghosts.

There was his mother's dimples, impish ones Daeron, the only child, was to inherit. Yet, the proud chin and feline, upturned nose were solely Daeron's, likely given through an old ancestor. There was Rhaegar's, Aerys's and Daenerys's mouth, plump but with a natural upturn to the corners, making it look like they were smiling when, in fact, they were not. The eyes were foreign, strange, the shape larger than what most Targaryen's had, more slanted too, the colouring odd, but the skin wasn't. Daenerys tanned like Rhaegar did, Viserys burned, too pale and white to go anything but a blistering red. This woman… Haraella, had his same marbled skin.

Then, as if that wasn't enough for his mind to handle, she reached up for the scarf, ripping it from her head, letting it float to the floor, and although a large splash of crimson stained a large portion of her head from where she had obviously fell and hit it, the rest of her silver blonde hair tumbling down in shocking waves and curls of moonlight, was unmistakable. Targaryen… There was a Targaryen standing in front of him… Daeron's girl… It had to be… His brother had survived the rebellion, the usurpation of their home and throne, had married and survived… Survived long enough to beget a child at least. There, right there, in front of him, was his own niece.

 _Family is the only thing that matters in life. Promise me you will never forget that, Viserys._

"I am very much alive, thank you! Now, who the fuck are you?"

His dagger thudded as it dropped to the floor, skidding in the sand with the few forgotten golden dragons. He couldn't breathe. Till his dying day, Viserys would never be able to tell you why he did what he did next, why the glint caught his eyes the way it did, how he noticed it at all. However, he did look over Haraella's shoulder, he did see the glint of a broadsword on the hip of a man leaning against a wall, a sword too expensive for the state of his dress, he saw him watching them from the corner of his eyes, he saw the golden company's emblem stamped on the scabbard of his sword. The sword was _Westerosi_ made. It's extravagant but muted handle gave that away. Now that he had spotted the man, he could see three others… Four… No, five others lining the narrow streets, up and down, all similarly playing at shopping but watching them. Sellswords... They had saw Haraella's blond hair…

"When I say run. Run."

The stick she was holding dropped an inch and she frowned deeply, confusion dancing across her features.

"What? I don't even know who the hell you are and-"

There was only one way to show her, one that would save time. The Sellsword's were compacting in around them. Soon they would be surrounded. However, if he did so, he would be outing himself to them, gaining their attention… One look at his mother's dimples was enough to stave off his fear. He reached up and unraveled his own headscarf, letting his own silver white tresses glint in the sun. She smiled brilliantly, the stick dropping fully as she jabbed it back into its strap at her thigh, nearly bouncing on her feet in excitement as she took a step closer, eyeing his hair as if seeing the moon for the first time. She almost looked like she wanted to reach out and touch it, just to see if it was real and he wandered if she had never seen another Targaryen before. But that thought only lead to the dank realisation that, if that was indeed the case, Daeron was dead all over again.

"The purple eyes… I knew it. My father had the same eyes and I've never-"

He pushed back on his tumultuous emotions, the questions and worries swirling around his mind sucking the very breath from his lungs. Later. When they weren't moments away from being assassinated. She stopped her rambling when he rested a reverent hand upon her bicep, with only enough strength held within his fingers to silently transfer the inauspiciousness of their situation. She fell silent immediately, gaze unquestioning but guarded.

"Trust me. Now…"

Two of the five men slinked in together, closer, leaving just enough room between the five to run through and down into the bowels of the under canals of Volantis. A place dank, dark and small enough to hopefully loose the Sellswords if they chose to follow them. Violet clashed with Emerald.

"Run."

* * *

 **Questions, Answers, and a few Notes:**

 **Vanora to Vaenora:**

This idea was actually given to me from a lovely reviewer who pointed out it would be a nice touch to spell Vanora as Vaenora because, although Haraella can't speak High Valyrian, she would notice how both her father and her own name are spelled and it gives her that little bit of familial connection. So, I've gone back over chapter one and changed the name to this spelling as I really did like the idea of that. Normally, I would credit the idea, but the review was on guest, so I can't. However, if that reviewer is reading, thank you for your input and idea and full credit goes to you!

 **Haraella's scars, will you get rid of them?**

No. Just plain ol' no here. I really don't see the point in it? Harry's scars give him character, it's a part of who he is, it shows he/she is a survivor. It also doesn't make them a typical 'beauty', whatever that is, and I really don't like reading/writing perfect characters who people just fall in love with. If you're looking for that, please read something else, this story is not for you.

 **Viserys was just as bad in the books! How can you do this? Change the pairing.**

Well, golly gosh, I kicked up a right fuss didn't I? (Never mind that you've clicked on this fic clearly seeing the pairing XD) Apparently saying _I'm taking heavy inspiration from BOOK VISERYS, not the show version. If you haven't read the books, there is quite a big difference between the two._ Is also me saying that Viserys is an angel sent down to us from the lord!

Just no XD. Viserys does have his show qualities in the books, but unlike the show where it paints him slightly cartoonishly because they didn't have the time to delve into his backstory, we get that from the books which adds depth and reasoning to his character. That back story humanises Viserys, adds colour to his T.V show grey version. That is what I'm taking inspiration from. In the show, he's a just another villain to show how vulnerable Daenerys is, and is used as a stepping stone to get Daenerys from point A to point B. In the book, he's almost a tragic figure, well, that's how I read it anyway, and is used as a tool to show how much better (especially when the madness sets in with him) Daenerys would be as a ruler compared to her brother.

Like Aerys, he didn't start out mad, it was a concoction of experience and trauma that broke them that way, and I find that fascinating. This is a boy, who from age five (in the books) had to flee his home land with a newborn sister after his mothers passing. And while his exile in Essos started out with care by Willem Darry, after the Sers death, the servants stole what little money the children had, and because of that, they were put out into the streets. They began to be accepted into the houses of powerful citizens, but that welcome eventually faded with the novelty of having a Targaryen at home to look at like a zoo animal. Viserys at this point, would have been old enough to understand that and that's fucking brutal. Because the welcome faded, Viserys (from what little he had left) had to begin to sell off everything they had taken with them and the things that had survived the servants stealing. Can you imagine being in exile, dreaming of home and then having to sell what little you have left of that home, the only evidence of family and warm memories, for small change just to survive? I bet it wasn't a nice experience to go through.

However, it wasn't until he had to sell the last item, Rhaella's crown, that 'the last joy Viserys had was taken, leaving only rage'. This is why I've had Harry meet him at this one moment, the exact time before he fully became the character we see in the books and show. Yes, he abuses Daenerys, hits her and verbally tears her down, but even Daenerys herself says he started out warm, kind. And while it in no way, shape, or form excuses that behaviour, we have to put it into context. Those traumatic experiences he has in Essos shape him and break him, dipping him into the madness we see later on and just putting him down as simple evil is foolish.

 _But he tried to take Daenerys's virginity on the night before her wedding and was only stopped by the guards Illyrio posted outside her door!_ Let's be real, this was told way after it happened, in a Tyrion chapter by Illyrio of all people when he's trying to get Tyrion on side. Yes, most take this as canon and I respect that, but I don't trust Illyrio as far as I can throw him, and take this tale with a grain of salt. _He threatens Daenerys and her unborn child._ Yet again, inexcusable, but context people! By this point, he's a broken man with the singular goal of going home, it's all he's ever wanted, all he's ever planned for and seeing that slip away from him, Drogo _is_ going back on their deal, and seeing Dany be accepted and loved while he was only ever ridiculed and laughed at is, what I believe, the final straw his mind could take. _Ser Barristan Selmy explicitly states he takes after Aerys, even as a child, more than Rhaegar ever did._ One; Barristan holds Rhaegar in a idol like reverance. Two; Aerys never started out as a bad king, he was actually quite a good one before his imprisonment for six months.

 _ **To me, the question Game of Thrones asks is one of if children inherited their parents sins, or do they make their own way and break the cycle. Viserys is a prime example of that question being asked and I want to explore that theme in this fic, I want to explore that with Harry's character too.**_

Honestly, I could rant about this for hours, but I fear I've bored you all already. I am not making Viserys an angel, because his not, he's a troubled person with anger problems, but I am exploring his character and seeing where it goes and I do believe someone like Harry/ Haraella could just about pull him back from the precipice he's dangling off, which is why I've introduced them together the way I have. (If Jaime Lannister can have a redemption arc, then Viserys can too) And as I have said, you have clearly seen the pairing and still decided to read this, so **No, I am not changing the pairing.** If this is not your cup of tea, feel free to click away, damn, write your own fanfic, read another, do what makes you happy! Life's to short to be reading fanfic you don't like XD.

 **Is Aegon, Aegon or a Blackfyre?**

In this fic he's Aegon Targaryen, not a Blackfyre. 😊

 **SORRY FOR SUCH A LONG NOTE THIS CHAPTER,** hopefully it won't ever be this long again (damn, here goes the blushing once more), but I just really wanted to state where I was coming from and get it out of the way.

 **THANK YOU** to all those who favourited, followed and reviewed, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and continue to do so with the ones that come along! If you have a moment, drop a review! Until next time, stay beautiful! ~ _AlwaysEatTheRude21_


	3. Look To The Sky

**VISERYS P.O.V**

The ash danced in the air like Viserys had always pictured snow would. Gracefully slow, meticulous spirals of dancing flakes encased in opulent smoke so thick it felt like fog settling in his lungs. Haraella stood in the heart of it, misted and doused in grey and blackened air, obscuring her back to Viserys's widened, almost frightened, gaze. Steadily, she turned to face him, eyes keen and glowing, predatorial in the landscape of muted grey. For once, he had nothing to say.

They had run down into the canals like he had planned, Haraella shouting questions at his back as he dragged her along by the joint of her elbow, heartbeat too loud in his chest to answer or hear her fully, but as soon as they had exited the underbelly maze, the Sellswords had circumvented the canals and cornered them in a small offshoot of an abandoned alley. An alleyway with a dead end.

The swords being unsheathed, the slick chiming of metal against leather, had forced Viserys to back up, subconsciously pushing Haraella behind him, ushering them both further into the corner they were physically and metaphorically in. It was only then did he remember he had dropped his one source of self-defence back in the market place. His dagger. Here they were, trapped like quaking mice in a heated barrel, with no arm or shield to stem the oncoming blows. It would take a gift from the seven to lift them from this predicament, he knew that. He just had not known that gift came in the form of bright lights and conjured fire wrapped in Haraella's skin. But oh, he ascertained this soon enough.

Haraella had peeked around his shoulder, another question blossoming on her lips when she saw the men, saw the swords, saw the slow, purposeful gate of the five men as they smirked and slithered forward. She must have figured out why they were running then, but instead of the cry of fear like he had been expecting, her head cocked curiously to the side, face stonily still as a placid lake as she proudly detangled herself from behind him, refusing all his attempts to keep her behind him and away from the men, meeting the men step for step until they threatened to crash against each other like two great waves in the middle of the narrow alley way.

"I really wouldn't start this fight."

Her voice had been so calm, so airy, like a mother whispering to the child at her bosom that it was time to sleep. It was wrong. So very, very wrong. That voice, coupled with her straight spine, the action of her flicking her stick free from its thigh sheath, the smile she gave the men. It. Was. Wrong. It was the only way Viserys could describe it, the disconnection between light, playful voice and a stance ready to unleash fury should there be a single wrong move made.

"What are you going to do little Targaryen? Poke me with your stick?"

The men laughed and oddly, Haraella joined in. Hers was the dulcet violin to their greasy drum beat. It jilted the men out of their own humour, a few sparing a worried look between comrades. Viserys did not blame them for that, Haraella was chuckling like she knew the punchline to a joke no one else could see. Perhaps she did, for what followed no one but she could have predicted.

"Oh, I don't poke. I burn. You see, I've seen enough faces of those who wish me dead to see the same glint in yours. Question is, why? I have done nothing to you. So, this is obviously a horrible mistake on your part, and I will treat it as such. Leave… While I still allow it."

Of course, the men did not leave. They pulled on false bravado like one would wrap a cloak around themselves to bar the chilly winds, they were warm now, brave, but they knew those same frigid winds blew strong around them. However, even to Viserys, who was still prone in the corner, unable to do anything but watch this oddity unfold, could see the weariness pull tight at the corners of their eyes. Haraella? She simply smiled and twirled that strange stick faster around her fingers. Around. Around. Around.

"You didn't have to, your blood is enough. King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, sends his regards."

Her head cocked to the side, and almost pleadingly, she spoke once more, urging them to leave. With her back to him, Viserys could not see her face, only the slight flutter of her silver tresses, but he knew, _just knew,_ those emerald eyes were glowing fiercely.

"I would say to send mine back, but there won't be any of you left to. Last warning boys, turn back."

The closest one lifted his sword and stepped closer. With that alone, he sealed his and his men's fate. Although, ironically, neither he, them or Viserys knew that in that single moment.

"Not without your head."

It was like he was frozen. Wrought of iron and brick, not blood and bone. All he could do was watch. Watch as Haraella flicked her hand out, the stick glowing hot white as she said a word he did not understand, sending the man who had stepped up sailing down the alleyway by some invisible force, his head sickeningly slamming against stone wall on his airborne journey, concaving in from the force, blood splattering across the yellow stone before he slumped to the floor, sword clattering to the dusty ground, never to be picked up again.

There was just silence, eerily, heavy, silence before the seven hells opened their maws and swallowed them all. They charged, Haraella, with that strange stick of hers, dispatched them quickly, one flying like his predecessor, breaking just as hard against the high wall, the other falling to pieces as if he had been chopped and ground by a butcher, choking on his blood before he flopped to the floor. While the fifth man gained Haraella's attention by the war cry he unleashed as he charged, the fourth and final one snuck up to her side, aiming a well-judged kick to her stick hand, sending the spindly twig careening to the floor in an arching spiral.

But that could not stop the fury they had untethered, and all Viserys could do, in shock or fear, was watch as Haraella ducked from the swinging sword of the fifth man, laughing merrily as if this was all but a dance she knew too well.

"You think that will stop me?"

She swivelled to the fourth man, eyes alight and dancing, breath hot in the air as she, without that stick that Viserys thought was what she had drawn these strange powers from, opened her arms wide, as if to hug him and whispers a lone word.

"Incendio."

With her attention on the fourth man, the fifth ran for the entrance of the Alleyway, turning the corner just in time to save himself from the fire that descended upon them. In his corner, as if standing on blessed ground, Viserys was safe, no flame or fire came near his circular radius, as if he was cloaked by the same invisible force that had killed two of the Sellswords. That could not be said for the rest of the alleyway. Bright licks and gusts of red and orange fire sprouted from the ground, from the walls, from the air, from Haraella herself, burning, eating, chugging, so bright and hot, Viserys felt scorched, blinded. He instinctively lifted his hand, holding the light at bay, blinking like a new born babe as an inhuman, wailing cry of the burning Sellsword rang out like a sept's mourning bell.

Then, the fire died and all there were was ash, smoke and the charred remains of bones and blackened armour heaped in piles around the alleyway, the yellow stone stained onyx from the great fire. Haraella was facing him, steadily holding his gaze as she slinked to the wall, bending down, and only as she picked up her miraculously untouched stick and slid it home, did she take her burning gaze away from him, eyeing the entrance, likely debating on whether to follow the final man or not. She shook her head, stood, and as if it was not a care nor worry to her, patted out the small fire that was singing her already burnt tunic and breeches. The clothes were nothing but rags now, blackened and charred, but they held true enough to give her just enough decency. Her skin was marbled, white… Untouched by flame or heat, although she had been the progenitor of the great fire.

"That should hold them back for a while, at least. How far to the caves at the beach-front, by the docks?"

That same placid voice, calm, soothing, made a reappearance. Viserys blinked, face slack, tone quiet but jarringly breathless.

"What are you?"

Perhaps he had hit his head. Perhaps he was dreaming. Perhaps… How else would he reason what he had played witness to? He couldn't think, his thoughts were jumbled and ragged, stinging like bees as they passed through his mind. She looked back at him them, a sad little smile haunting her lips.

"Many things. Too many to divulge right now."

Though she was looking right at him, her mouth did not move, not an inch, not for breath or word, but her voice was there, right inside his mind. Clear. Unmistakable. The tales of his boyhood, the stories his dear mother used to tell him of their family before bed, the books he used to read of grand Valyria, they came rushing back to him and, like a holy man whispering a beloved prayer, he spoke as if he too was seeing the gods for the first time.

"Magic."

She frowned and spoke truly this time, with lips and tongue and teeth. All glinting in the afternoon sun.

"You know of it?"

He lurched forward, unsteady on his feet though he had done nothing but stand idle in the skirmish that had taken place. She met him step for step, grasping his elbows to steady his gate.

"The blood of old Valyria runs strong in you."

Blood and fire, their house words. According to the histories of his people… Their people, it was also the root of all Valyrian magic. Back in their homeland of Valyria, it was said they could set dragonglass candles to burning with strange, unpleasantly-bright light. Bright light and fire Haraella had used to burn this alleyway to seared remains. With those candles, they could see across lands untold, vast distances, peer into a mans mind… Speak to them and each other even if half a world apart, if they wished, like Haraella had just done.

The old wizards of Valyria birthed their grand buildings and architecture from not chisel and stone, but through fire and magic as a potter would work clay. The people of Valyria were strong in magic, it was in their blood, and they used their powerful wizards and their dragons in conjunction with their armies to conquer most of western Essos.

But then came the doom of old Valyria, and with it, the death of their magic. Of course, through the ages, they had tried to regain that power and knowledge through stormsingers or their own dragons, but nothing ever came back. The dragonglass candles had been doused, to burn brightly no more. Yet… Yet, here Haraella was, a Targaryen who could conjure flame from her skin and use great winds to blow enemies away, who could peak and speak through mind and will and…

The magic was back. It was not dead. It was here. Right here. In front of him.

"Valyria?"

The word snapped him out of his almost fever like daze and reverence of the young woman standing in front of him, and only then, as she pulled away, did he notice he had reached for her, cradled her face in his hand, peered bottomlessly into those wildfire eyes. He coughed, his hands fell, and he took a step back to give himself air. The ground beneath his feet was liquid, but he was gaining his bearings once more.

"Our homeland, where our family originated from. We too used to have magic in our blood, it was the only thing that saved us through our lands doom. The ages stripped that of us and magic such as this has not been seen for eras, though we remember… We remember."

 _He remembered._ As a boy, he had been riveted on the tales of their ancestry, the wielding of fire and blood through will and mind and magic. His mother and brothers had known that, had regaled him with stories and histories of old as much as he had badgered them to. Haraella's face lit up like a candle in a dank room, the smile bouncing from scorched wall to singed sand.

"Father was from a squib line… It makes sense now…"

It was like they were speaking two different languages, only able to understand every other word. However, like most did when language failed, they read the body, and she saw the fastened breath, the wide eyes, the slack, dry mouth and mistook his wonder as fear. She took her own step backwards, body tight and compact as that smile turned melancholy once more. It was contradictory, having such an old smile on such a young face. Enigmatic.

"Are you afraid?"

 _Of me,_ was left unsaid, but it was clearly there, hanging silently between the rolling consonants. He should be, after what he had seen. Yet, he wasn't.

"No."

He said it with so much confidence that the sweep of surprise on Haraella's face was blatant, and he thought she was not one to idly let her emotions play out on her face. Still, she sucked it up, pretended it wasn't there, that his omission had not shocked her, and rambled forward, plucking up his elbow as she partially dragged him out of the alleyway, taking a moment or two to peek around the corners before marching them both away from the mayhem they had left behind. Luckily, these bottom streets and nooks where void of people, leaving them with enough anonymity to safely get away.

"Come on, more will likely follow because of that one that got away, and we need to get to the docking caves."

Viserys tugged his arm free, partly because he still could not stand people leading him, and because, finally, his mind had caught up to him.

"No. It is a dead end, with no way to get to Daenerys. all there is is sea and they can easily trap us-"

Both fell silent as they dipped behind a stack of barrels clustered against a wall, pressed tightly together, as a haggard fisherman traversed the path they were on, dragging behind him a cart of foul smelling fish pilled high and rotting in the hot son. He may be old and withered, but with the house of black and white and faceless men so prevalent in Essos, Viserys felt he could never be too careful. Haraella, silent and watchful, obviously felt the same. As he passed, he spared them no glance. Still, Haraella waited until he was turning a corner to another narrowed street before she turned her attention back to Viserys.

"Daenerys? Is she another Targaryen?"

Viserys frowned.

"Did Daeron never tell you of our family?"

Apparently, by the blank face and the quick shuffle she did to get away from him and the barrels, it had been the wrong question to ask. She began to walk down the thin, winding path again, Viserys scowling as he was forced to pick up his own pace to catch and match with her stride. Without a sideways glance at him, she spoke, voice empty of all emotion.

"My father and mother died before I reached my second birthday."

His stride faltered for a step, his heart squeezed just a fraction harder and he doubled down on his own emotions. Of course, days of birth was a foreign concept, but perhaps from the land Haraella hailed from, it was a version of their name days.

Still, this revelation that Haraella was likely from a land far from here did nothing to distract from the knowledge his brother was dead. Certainly, Viserys had believed just that before today, he had grieved for Daeron with the rest of his family, but with the arrival of this young Targaryen, he had thought… Believed… Well, it felt like he had lost his brother all over again. It was an odd tide to row upon.

"Daenerys is your aunt. I'm your uncle, Viserys. Daeron was our older brother."

For a moment, she looked like she wanted to apologize for giving him that scrap of information in the way that she had, but she bit down on it. Hard. She knew as much as he did that apologies did nothing. Changed nothing. By the tilt of her chin, she was a proud, little thing, and apologies did not come naturally to her. Neither did they come easy to himself or Daenerys, and if he remembered as well as he believed he did, they were poison to his parents, Rhaegar and Daeron themselves.

His mother used to tell him that Dragon's did not offer apologies, they did not deign themselves to bend so low, but they regret and mourned just as hard as the other animals, more so in fact, and that was why he had to be careful with his actions and words. Dragons were good at burning down bridges, but they were poor bedfellows at rebuilding them. They began walking again just as Haraella pressed forward in their conversation, her curiosity getting the best of her.

"Is there more of us?"

Viserys took the lead this time, scouting around another corner, seeing the pathway empty before he tilted his head for Haraella to follow.

"No. Me and Daenerys, up until this morn, were believed to be the last of our family."

It was a strange time to chuckle, but chuckle Haraella did, as if she expected nothing else from life but to give her the empty cup even if it's barrel was full.

"They're all dead?"

Viserys cut her a sharp, questioning look as they slinked down the path, sticking to the shadows to dull their bright hair. To be fair, the ash from the great fire Haraella had conjured, sticky and drab, clung ruthlessly to them, masking most of their features and colouring with a dark, speckled plethora of grey shades. Like war paint, they simply looked like a pair of blacksmith or cooking apprentices who had stood too close to a roaring hearth or forge. Yet, his mind was trapped on other matters to understand they didn't need to act as stealthily as they were. Had she not heard of the massacre? The bloodshed and downfall of their house? No lands could be far enough away to stay untouched of the fall of house Targaryen.

"Yes. The Usurper butchered them all in his thiefdom of our throne… The Iron Throne… Kings landing… Westeros? You have no idea what I am talking about, do you?"

Once again, they stopped by a clump of barrels and crates, Viserys staring incredulously at Haraella's unchanging face. She pushed him further into unbelievability as she idly shrugged her pale shoulders.

"None. All I know is your calling yourself my uncle, according to you I have an aunt, and now I have people with broadswords strapped to their back and hips running after me. On top of all that, I believe I have quite a severe concussion, for there are currently two of you and the one on the left is a bit fuzzy and has three legs."

With his shoulder pressed up against the wall by the crates… He was the one on the left. He went to reach for her, touching at the slicing wound of her temple, but she batted him away with a snarl. It was deep, but he could see no bone and the lack of swelling did not hint at a broken skull. It would heal fully once clean, but no doubt, she would feel a throbbing headache once the concussion faded. Until then, he took it slowly, speaking clearly and fluidly. In other circumstances, he would wait to tell her of their problem, her new-found problem, but they had no time. She had no time.

"They believe you're Daenerys and are looking to cash in on her and mines bounty. You are of the same age, height and colouring. Apart from the eyes, of course. The mistake is easy to make if you had not already saw Daenerys with your own eyes."

This time, she did not snarl or bat at him as he pulled her into the shadow of the towering crates and barrels for a hushed conversation. If anyone should pass, it would just look like two lowborn younglings getting their pleasure where they could.

"Bounties? You and she have bounties on your heads?"

She looked more ragefully inconvenienced than shocked at the news, like a baker had asked for an extra silver dragon for her normal loaf of bread, though she held the glint of not being surprised, as if she should have expected no less. Viserys shook his head, this was no time to try and ponder the complexities and paradoxical components that made up his niece. She needed to see the danger she was in.

"The Baratheon bastard wishes us dead, but will not sail across the sea to do so himself. He wants our families name to be nothing but ash and dust. He will not stop until we are all dead."

She blinked and the puzzle pieces clicked into place.

"… And now they've saw me…"

Viserys regretfully nodded. In a way, prodding her in the market place like he had, he was the one who had outed her to the golden company in the first place. But, then again, apologies did not come to them and so, they would have to simply make the best out of a poor situation.

"And now they've saw you. It won't take them long before they figure out you are not Daenerys. It will not take long before news of a new Targaryen is pilfered back to the usurpers ear…"

She finished his thought for him.

"And It won't be long before I have a bounty on my own head. Shit. Fuck!"

Viserys was not a man of comfort. Nor was he built for soft words, gentile gestures or to give the feeling of safety. Daenerys, if asked, could attain to that most likely. Still, it didn't mean he didn't try, he just often failed at any and all attempts. His way of comfort was often read as boasting of his family and his name, for, to him, his family and his name was the only comfort he had, and foolishly, he often believed others could feel those same emotions through it too. Yet again, faced with a young niece who looked ready to punch the wall, he fell back into the blanket of warmth that was the verbal reminiscence of his family, hoping that perhaps, Haraella would feel the way he did when he spoke and remembered them.

"Fear not. We are Targaryens. We hold the blood of old Valyria. We are the dragon lords of old and Kings and queens of the Andals and-"

Her eyes locked on his, wide, pupils blown, as she cut him off resolutely.

"Dragon lords?"

Ah, the mention of dragons. She was a true Targaryen if but the word alone caught her attention so.

"Yes, Dragons lords. We were feared and loved equally for it. We have magic in our blood, we used to ride them and-"

Nonetheless, she cut him off once more, seemingly enraptured by the topic.

"Actual dragons? You… You believe in Dragons?"

Now it was Viserys's time to scowl and proudly tilt his chin.

"I do not believe anything. I know. Many people know. The whole of Westeros knows of our dragons and might. I've seen their great skulls myself. Walked amongst them as a child… You really do know nothing about being a Targaryen, do you?"

The question came out laced with pity. He could not envisage having grown without the history of his family, the pride that came from it to nourish him even in the darkest times of his life. Still, a sly smile slipped across her mouth, stretching her dimples into deep existence.

"Oh, I think I'm more Targaryen than even you suspect. It all makes an odd sort of sense now… Remus did say I am more my father's daughter than my mother's."

She was lost in her own mind for a moment, and Viserys did not know how to break her out of the memory that had obviously encased her. Although, it did not seem like he needed to do such a thing as she snapped to, something sharp and strident shimmering in the pools of her eyes, like a water snake ready to lung at the waters drinker.

"There is a way to get out of this… To get to Daenerys and still keep our heads on our necks."

He was lost.

"What are you talking about?"

She pulled in tight to him then, chest nearly brushing chest, voice frantic, eyes pitched and keen.

"Promise me, give me your word that you have not uttered a single lie. That you are, in fact, my family. Give me an oath that should I help, no harm will come to me or Vaenora, not by your hands or your sisters."

Vaenora? Perhaps Viserys had no family to offer her apart from Daenerys, but she could have some to offer them.

"Vaenora? You have a sibling? I wo-"

She pushed in deeper, mouth slimming to a slit, and although she was smaller than he, nearly comically so, her presence, her very being, was not. She felt huge then, untameable, inescapable, uncontainable, incandescent and scalding. Like a dragon hiding in human flesh, playing sheep. He did not shrink away, in fact, he felt himself drawn to the heat, to the presence irreversibly.

"Just give me your word! Promise me or I will complete the job these mercenaries are miserably failing at."

He spoke next more to himself than he did she.

"We are Targaryen's, the last of our great family… The dragon always has three heads…"

That was what Rhaegar had always told him, was it not? The dragon always had three heads. Viserys. Haraella. Daenerys. Something niggled in the pit of his gut, something felt a bit off about that thought, but he pushed it down and away. The dragon always had three heads and here was the third.

"With Fire and blood, I give you my word that neither you or this Vaenora will come to any such harm under mine or my sisters care or watch. I have not uttered a lie this day."

She pulled back and the presence receded, like she had sucked it back into a glass bottle and popped a cork in the top. Furthermore, that wily smile was back full force.

"Then, instead of rumours slithering back to this usurper who wants my head… Our heads, how about we give him a little show of what warring with a Targaryen really means? Get to Daenerys and meet me underneath the statue of the man with a fish face, I'll be there shortly."

She went to duck out of the concave of crates and barrels but Viserys dragged her back in.

"The market will be crowded beyond measure come evening. The Triarchs of Volantis will be parading through due to the new election for office coming next moonrise. While the crowd will offer us some anonymity, it will also leave us open to more Sellswords should we be spotted."

Triarch was the title held by three individuals _elected_ , and he used that word loosely, to be the rulers of Volantis. To be a candidate for such a run, one needed only to trace their family line irrefutably back to the Valyrian freehold. Viserys scoffed at the thought. Their blood was so diluted now, that the visage of silver hair and purple eyes were only held by his family, and most only descended from the lower caste of Valyria, not the lords like he and his sister… And his niece now. So, while they boasted of Valyrian descent, feasted like kings and queens day and night, the true Valyrian's were left to scrounge in the dirt. He almost hated them as much as he loathed the Baratheon.

There were two fractions to these Triarchs, the tiger and the elephant clans. The tigers were the old aristocracy and warriors, who advocated the sword and conquest and led Volantis during the Century of Blood, in which Volantis tried and failed to reestablish the Valyrian Freehold under their rule. The elephants were the merchants and moneylenders, who advocated trade instead of war. Still, they were both as cutthroat as each other, only the ways in which they held and sustained their power differed in their underhanded or outright deplorable acts. These were people who rode upon elephants because they believed themselves so elevated that not even their feet should touch the ground.

Still, they held their office for yearly terms, until the first day of the new year, and many, due to bribery, assassination of other runners, and other unspeakable acts, held the office multiple times. Elections lasted for ten days, in which Volantis was filled with torchlight marches, speeches, mummers, minstrels and dancers. This evening was to be the first of the ten days, and to show prowess, the Triarchs were sure to do their annual tour of the city. A tour that would lead them right through the market, exactly where Haraella wanted to meet.

"These Triarchs? They're the leaders of this city?"

Viserys did not like the glint that shone in her eye. It felt half mad. Did she not understand the danger they were in? They needed to find Daenerys and move cities, perhaps to Pentos. It would be safer there, especially at this time of year.

"Yes, three people who can trace their blood back to the Valyrian free-hold. They hold their office for a years term. This term is up and electoral bribery, showmanship and overall underhanded power plays will be abound in the following days. As you can see, it won't be just Sellswords we will have to out manoeuvre, but politicians who wish to earn funding from overseas, namely from the Baratheon treasury."

She only smiled.

"Ah, corrupt officials? My favourite. The Valyrian free-hold… You said we came from there, didn't you? We can trace our blood back to this place?"

Viserys violently shook his head, breathing heavily through his nostrils, huffing like a dragon might, to calm the storm swirling in his chest.

"Yes… But I see no correlation from this to our current predicament!"

He was getting short with her, he knew that. She was young, she likely didn't know or understood the sort of danger they were in. But she liked to speak in riddles, she seemed entirely too unfazed by what he had already told her and she kept smiling, as if this was all just another challenge to play for.

"But I do… I see it loud and clear. These Triarchs, they will be moving through the market this evening?"

Viserys spoke through greeted teeth. This conversation was pointless. They should be finding Daenerys and then, with the gold Haraella had given him, they should all pay for a ship and cabin journey to Pentos. Surely one of the ships in the docking port would be willing enough.

"Yes, their path dissects exactly where you wish for us to meet! They are a greedy lot, if they spot us, they will not think twice about handing us over to the Sellswords or to the usurper himself if given the right coin!"

Her smile turned vicious, like a hound that had found an injured deer and was prowling towards its limping form on the fur of its belly.

"Oh, they're going to see us alright. I'm planning on it."

"You will get not only yourself killed, but me and my sister too. This is madness!"

Viserys broke, he scowled and began to leave the safety of the crates and barrels, planning to find Daenerys himself, hoping Haraella would follow. Mayhap, if she saw him walking away, it would knock some sense into her. Before he could fully leave, a delicate hand wrapped around his wrist, firm but loose, holding but not tugging him back. Her skin was hot, soft, gentle. His gaze flickered down and followed the thin hand to a well-muscled arm, to a sloping shoulder, to a carven face with big eyes that begged him to see what he simply couldn't. Perhaps he had spent so long running, he did not know how to do anything but that anymore.

The idea of confronting anybody, let alone the Triarchs, for he knew Haraella was hinting at just that, with no army, no money but that Haraella had given him and no weapons, well, it scared him. It terrified him more than he would ever admit. If this action brought him fear, what would he do when he finally had the men to sail home? No. He was not scared. He was a dragon. Dragons did not fear. They did not run… So why had he spent his life running? Always running. Even now… Haraella's hand squeezed his wrist reassuringly.

"Look, you told me to run, I ran. I've shown you my magic and have asked for nothing in return. I know what it is like to be alone in the world, scared, running, hiding… It is something I wish on no one. I don't know about you, but I'm sick of being alone. I'm tired of running. I'm over being scared. I have a plan. A plan to keep the Sellswords at bay, to make the Baratheon think twice and to stop us from hiding and running. If this succeeds, not only will you no longer have to run, hide or scrape by, but you can create a stronghold here. A secure place to gain power in, to find security in, to send a message so bright and unshakable, that not only will this usurper shrink in its shadow, but anyone else who thinks to behead or quarrel with a Targaryen will feel its shade around their shoulders. However, first and foremost, you have to trust me. I cannot do what I'm about to without your trust. Without your backing… I can't do this alone."

No more running. _Stand with me._ That was the crux of what she was asking him and he did not know if he could stop. It was all he had known for a majority of his life. She was his niece, but she was equally a stranger. A stranger who looked like an amalgamation of his deceased family. A stranger who had the Targaryen spit and fire. A stranger with no one else in the world, alone, like he and Daenerys. A stranger but a kindred spirit. He just needed to know one thing.

"Why? We may share the same blood, house and name, but you obviously do not know our history, our legacy, our family. Why help us?"

And then it was Daeron standing before him, with the same confident squared shoulders, playfully tousled hair, soft, kind curve to the lips of a ghosted smile extenuated by cheeky dimples.

"Because family is the only thing that matters in life."

She was Daeron's daughter. In mind, body and fiery being. His brother was not fully gone, not with his niece here, so much like him and she was ever so oblivious to that fact. How could she know his brother had said the exact same thing to him all those years ago? She couldn't. It was Daeron's memory urging him to hold his promise. She carried on, as if he needed any more reasoning.

"I may not know our legacy. I may not fully know why this usurper wants you or my aunt dead. I may not know about thrones or West-er-something. But I do know that. I know it to the marrow in my bones."

Now that she had started, she didn't seem to be able to stop, almost frantically impelling him to understand it, to see through her eyes when, in fact, he had no trouble at all.

"I lost my parents young, too young. With their death, they took any hope of me having a family… But here you are. Here my aunt is. Alive, breathing, here. I will not leave or stand idle while that hope is threatened. All I ever wanted is family. All I ever dreamed of, prayed for, bled for, is family. And here you are…"

He had no trouble understanding her, because her own emotions, her own words, her own feverish wish for someone to understand, to listen and know, were reflections of himself. He knew her just as much as she would come to know him. Then the hand on his wrist tightened and the fire underneath her skin lapped and licked at the surface of her countenance.

"And like fuck will I let some king, Triarch or bastard with a sword take that hope from me again."

 _Again._ An ordinary word, but here, it meant something deeper, something darker. How many people had she lost? When a man or woman had lost most things held precious to them, they became unpredictable. Dangerous. He could see the war in her eyes, very much like the war he sees in his own eyes when he looks into the polished mirrors of the inns he and Daenerys sometimes stay in.

"Just… Trust me."

Trust himself. Trust that they could weather the storm if they stood here long enough for it to crash upon them. Trust that they could stand together and there really was no more need to run. His hand slipped from her grasp…

"Me and Daenerys will meet you under the statue."

And slipped up to hold her hand, squeezing his insecurities, fears and worries out of himself, transferring them through skin to her, for her bright fire to burn and eat away. She smiled at him then, not that wily, vicious thing, or that sad twisted one, or even the playfully cheekiness of a lopsided grin, but a true smile, soft, sweeping, but vividly alive.

"Good."

She pulled away first, sliding out of the little tower of crates and barrels to look down the street, eyeing up the passers-by. This is where they would split, she would head down the hill, to the docks and he would slink backwards, towards the inn Daenerys should be hidden away in. Before she could walk away, he found himself speaking once more, not really wanting an answer, just unready to depart so soon after finding her. What if she did not return? What if the Sellswords cornered her at the docks? What if-

 _Trust me._

No, he would trust her. She had survived sixteen name-days, she could survive another few hours on her own. She had proven with the five Sellswords that she knew how to look after herself, perhaps even better than he could offer her.

"But how will you know the Triarchs are there?"

She began to walk backwards, slowly, casually.

"Oh, don't worry about that. I'll have a birds-eye view of the place. Now, find Daenerys and get to the statue. I'll be there soon, I just need to make a quick stop at the docking caves."

Birdseye view of the place? What a strange metaphor. Would she be hiding in one of the high watch towers that were dotted around Volantis? Viserys could only nod, but just as he turned around, but before he could start walking, she spoke for a final time.

"One last thing…"

Wildfire eyes greeted him as he glanced over his shoulder to her retreating form.

"When the screaming starts, don't run... Look to the sky!"

Her boisterous laughter and the unmistakable smell of cindering smoke was the only thing left when she turned the corner and disappeared.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER: DAENERYS P.O.V**

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 **QUICK NOTES ON THIS CHAPTER:**

1\. I want to give quite a bit of credit to the ASOIAF WIKI for this chapter, as I have taken a few extracts from it and implanted them into this chapter. So, the information about the magic of old Valyria and the Triarchs of Volantis are heavily from them. I feel relatively good about using this wiki as a source material because they actually reference the books, chapter and pages, they get the information from XD.

2\. I know not much happened this chapter, but we are only on chapter three, so things start rolling from here. To be honest, if this was an actual book and not a fanfiction, I would say chapters 1-3 of this is actually the introduction, the real story starts from here on out folks!

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 **QUESTIONS & ANSWERS**

 **Will the dragons be coming back soon?**

I think we can all surmise that, yes, they are coming back, very, very soon. XD

 **Does that mean only the Targaryen family have the famous traits of silver/platinum hair, pale skin, and purple eyes?**

In this, yes. I have not done this because of some plot point or other. As the reviewer rightfully pointed out, quite a few people have these traits as being descended from the Valyrian free-hold, however, in this, those traits are solely Targaryen. I will not lie, I've only done this because it makes this fic easier to write and is one less hurdle to jump over. I'm already contending with 12,000 years' worth of history I'm trying not to screw up too badly, trying to meld both the potter-verse and GoT-verse together, along with a plot I hope has enough bends and twists to live up to the source material that, in this matter, I have taken the easy road and just retconned the traits to being Targaryen. To be honest, I don't feel too bad about changing this as in the show, for obviously visual reasons, they have only showed white hair with a Targaryen (Not mentioning Jon Snow). So, I don't feel as if I'm fully squirreling out of source material by miles. Plus, this is fanfic, I'm not a published writer, expect a few mistakes here or there or some changes. (Some big changes once Haraella enters the race for the throne.)

 **Shouldn't Haraella be a little more aware of danger after coming out of war?**

As a little challenge to myself, I'm really trying to stay away from Haraella's P.O.V, however, some scenes in this fic will be a little confusing to her character because of this, until it gets cleared up in the following chapters, like this question asks. That being said, I made sure last chapter to fully show that Haraella has a head wound, head wounds often hint at concussions and concussions do befuddle the person who has them. This is explained deeper in this chapter. Haraella, in short, is not working at full compacity. She is hurt, she's dazed, in a foreign land and she had just ran into the first person she has ever seen that is sporting purple eyes and white hair like her father. I think her being a little dazed and out of it and not fully expecting an attack, especially from muggles who she relatively has no fighting experience with, is justified and warranted here.

 **Is there going to be wandless magic?**

Yes. But Haraella isn't going to be some god-like creature who can bend the world to how she wants it. She's still young, and in my opinion, with the war, has had hardly enough time to stretch her limits, so her wandless magic is relatively limited in the beginning (I'm not saying this is going to be the case for the majority of this fic, however). I purposefully made the Incendio in this chapter wandless to show that while she does have it, it is uncontrollable and a little unpredictable, it also falls into a fire spell, something I feel Haraella would have already been good and comfortable enough with to cast wandlessly (She is a Targaryen, after all XD). If there's any spell a Targaryen witch is going to be good at, it's going to be an incendio XD.

 **Will Viserys teach Haraella the Targaryen traditions?**

I might be taking some liberties here, as not much is written about Targaryen culture/traditions outside or before Aegon's conquest, and most of them have been melted into Westerosi traditions through the ages (correct me if I'm wrong, I would love to hear what you guys think or have to say on this). However, it will be included in my own little versions of it.

 _ **ON THE MATTER OF THE PAIRING…**_

This is the last time I am addressing this. **NO, THE PAIRING WILL NOT CHANGE.** Honestly, most of the reviewers asking for this are on guest, so I can't privately message them, but here it is. No. It's not changing. I don't care if you think a threesome is disgusting, gross, or you wish it was Jon or Robb or whoever, the pairing is not changing. I really don't understand why you would click on this fic, with the pairing abundantly clear, and still ask for it to change (And have literally nothing else to say but that). There are plenty of Fem!Harry fics out there paired with Rhaegar, Robb, Jon, everyone, which are brilliantly written, (Just look up Tsume Yuki, trust me, you'll thank me later, her work is like a drug) I really do advise you to read them.

What is most funny, is some of you seem to not understand Game of thrones or Targaryens in general. Multiple partners _is_ a thing of theirs. Given, normally to men of the Targaryen family, but then again, when has Harry in any form ever been conventional? What is worse is you guys really do seem more put out that Harry could have interest in more than one person than the matter of, oh… INCEST XD. Furthermore, I have seen plenty, and I mean plenty of male Harry fics where he is commonly paired with more than one partner, sometimes a harem, and no one bats an eye. God forbid he does that and have a pair of tits! Burn her! Lmao. Additionally, this isn't a matter of _males don't share, and neither would a king!_ It's about love, the many forms it takes, how we deal with the loss and evolution of love, and asking what is right and wrong, what are the boundaries, when love is in the equation.

 _Okay, jokes aside…_

This pairing is fundamental to my plot. If you know the bare minimal about game of thrones or ASOIAF, you know of Aegon and his TWO sister wives (Yet again, no one seems to kick up a fuss about this because he's got an extra organ dangling between his legs and it's okay for a man to love and care for more than one woman). It was them that conquered Westeros. Aegon was seen as charismatic as much as he was commanding, enigmatic to the core but also, oddly, a solitary type of person, who only favoured the company of his wives and his friend Orys Baratheon. While he was harsh to those who defied him or his rule, he was generous to those he held close, those he favoured and those who bent the knee, even going as far as letting the north keep their own gods and traditions out of respect. Visenya was described as serious, unforgiving and stern, (Ring any bells?), but also passionate for what she believed in. Rhaenys, his last sister and wife, was kindhearted, graceful, playful, curious, impulsive, and given to flights of fancy, with a mischievous aspect to her personality(Yet again, do you hear those bells ringing?). These three are popularly believed to be the reason why the Targaryens say the dragon needs three heads, and also, why they have the three headed dragon sigil.

In this fic, I'm trying to create a mirrored version of them. (See if you can guess who is who XD) George R.R Martin loves cycles and history repeating itself, and I've taken inspiration from that. I also like the idea that Viserys, Aegon and Haraella as being inverted versions of their forbearers, it's poetic in a way, and I will not change that because you simply want me to.

I get it, this pairing is not going to be everyone's cup of tea, that is perfectly fine. I just don't see why certain individuals have to keep P.M'ing me repeatedly, leaving reviews with nothing but a demand to change the pairing. If you do not like this pairing, click away. It really is that simple.

Don't get me wrong, I like constructive criticism, but just demands for me to change a pairing will not go far and will not change anything. This is my fic, and funny enough, I'll write it how I want to. In fact, any review with _only_ the demand to change pairings, or repeated P. Ms are going to be deleted and ignored. This is really all I have to say on the matter and I really will not be ranting about this again.

 **Update schedule?**

I don't have one I'm afraid, at the moment, I'm bouncing between fics that I have inspiration for, but this one has a deep well that keeps beckoning me to it, so the time between updates shouldn't be too long.

 _If you have any questions, don't hesitate to leave them! (Unless you're asking for the pairing to be changed -.-) If your question has not been answered, it means the answer is coming very soon or is playing a big part in this fic!_

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 _ **THANK YOU**_ to all the lovely reviewers! You really are the reason I'm carrying this fic on, especially after all the derogative reviews I had to delete and the snide P. Ms that filled my inbox lmao. This chapter is for you and I really hope you enjoy this fic. As I said before, we really get going now! So buckle up!

 _Here comes the dragon..._


	4. The Fall of Volantis: Part One

**THE FALL OF VOLANTIS- PART ONE**

* * *

 **DAENERYS P.O.V**

Viserys stood there underneath the statue of the merman, in his finest silken tunic and velvet breeches, hair combed and oiled to perfection, hand resting on the gilded hilt of the borrowed sword strapped to his waist, tapping away with his thumb on the pommel to an unheard tune. Daenerys's heart broke at the expectant gaze he held as he scanned the crowd. He had been a frenzied mess upon entering their inn room, haggard, covered in ash and reeking of smoke and burnt flesh. He had been half mad, in full honesty, words jagged and melting together into one liquidized mass that was hard to unpick and read the threads of meaning. Even now, dressed in her own fine, light silk dress, the very best she owned, Daenerys still only understood parts of what he had told her.

There was a niece, a Haraella Targaryen, somehow the daughter of a brother long dead, Daeron, alive and well and Viserys had found her in the street like some clandestine myth told by septas to young, impressionable ladies. There had been something about Sellswords and magic, fire, running, Triarchs and retribution. It had been a murky conversation. In fact, it was more aptly described as Viserys rambling as he pushed Daenerys to dress in her finest clothes as he too quickly washed down in a frigid basin by their bed, changed to the very best he owned, and wrangled his frizzed curls with lavender oil and a steady comb, clipping half his hair back with one of the only pieces of silver they had left, a little dragon hair clasp. Her quiet, tepid questions had fallen upon deaf ears as he herded them out of the safety of their inn, into the bustling streets of marching people, joyous celebration and minstrels singing their way to the market place.

Unusually, he had asked her to keep her hair down and out, shining bright silver in the setting sun, rather than hide it in a scarf like he normally pleaded for her to do. Furthermore, their houses sigil, the three headed dragon, was lovingly stitched upon his crimson and onyx tunic at his breast, at the hem of her dress, pieces of clothing Viserys would normally not allow them to wear out in public unless they had the favour of a high lord or magistrate to protect them.

How many times had he told her tales of the Sellswords? The golden company purchased by the usurper? Warned her of the gutless and vile assassins who would hurt them if they saw a Targaryen on the street? It was why they hid their heritage when not in favour, and they had not been in favour since their dreary arrival in Volantis. Now, without no lord or wealthy merchant to offer safety, they were dressed in their colours and sigil, almost demanding attention in their attire and regalia. it was topsy-turvy, Viserys seemingly advertising their house and name to anyone who would look upon them when, before, he had so stressingly hammered how dangerous that was to her.

"She's coming…"

And here they were, open, lost in the crowd underneath the docks statue of the fisherman's protectorate, Viserys glancing towards her, reassuring her of his own madness. It was he who had told her of their family, how Daeron had died before the rebellion protecting them and their father, how they were all dead and how their house and its continuing legacy was upon their shoulders and their shoulders alone.

It didn't make sense. Additionally, the fervour in Viserys's eyes could only be thought of as mental instability, Daenerys concluded. She had seen that look before, that tangible heat in his violet eyes, when she or others _awoke the dragon,_ when he thought no one was looking and the thought of the Baratheon plagued his mind, the shadow that always haunted him. If nothing else, her brother wore anger like armour, and in these trying times, it was safer to keep that armour strapped on tight.

"Viserys… Brother, can we not go back? I am feeling unwell."

She withered a little at the confused frown he cut towards her. It was not harsh or angry, but befuddled, and it hurt her to see it. Surely, this was the heat playing tricks on his mind? Perhaps he had too much milk of the poppy? No, he refused to take the stuff… But something, anything, had to be clouding his judgement, for there was no other explanation.

"Our niece is coming, we cannot leave her. I promised her we would meet her here. Do you not wish to see her?"

That was what she was afraid of, not seeing her, for that meant her brother had truly snapped this time and this was all just a conjuring of his tortured mind. She couldn't bring herself to believe that there was, really, truly, a niece out here, somewhere. They, her and Viserys, had always been alone. It had always been just them. The thought of another, the idea that there could be more, a larger family, it felt to… Good, to accept. Good things did not happen to them, and when they did, when the lords gave them favours, there was always a price to pay. Viserys had taught her that much. So, no, she could not accept this tale of a niece and magic, she could not bring herself to believe it, if but for a moment, because life was never that good to them. Still, under the heavy weight of Viserys's gaze, she crumbled like a castle made of sand.

"Of course I do…"

Viserys nodded as he went back to searching the crowd and Daenerys's heart burned. There would be no Targaryen slicing through the crowd to them, and in time, Viserys would see his own delusion when they were left desolate underneath the statue. Daenerys, in turn, swivelled her own gaze to the crowd, watching, whittling away time until Viserys would have to face the truth. The great lords of Volantis and the peasantry and smallfolk bundled together, as one, for the first and only time this year, all waiting with baited breath to see and meet the Triarchs on their parade through.

The rickety stalls normally present had been dismantled and rushed away, hidden to make room for the large crowd. At the very front of the market place, just before the grand black gate that permitted entrance to the inner city where only those in favour of the Triarchs and could boast Valyrian blood could enter, was a podium, large and heavy, an imposing structure of deep coloured wood, sturdy enough to hold the Triarchs and their elephants for when they addressed the crowd that night. Around the podium were torches, unlit but oiled and blackened, ready for when the time came to light up the stage. Through the crowd weaved dancers and acrobats, trailing silk ribbons as they twirled and backflipped to the lords amusement.

The minstrels lined the corners and rim, playing drumming beats mixed with lilting lutes and harmonious harps. The fools, dusted in gold and silver with harlequin eyes, shiny bells and tattered ribbons fluttering and chiming from their jaunty caps, gambolled and leapt through the crowd, entertaining the lords and frightening the very small children. Yes, it was a very grand place for a magnificent display, surely worth more money for one lone night than most of the people present would see in five generations. Though, Daenerys guessed, with the bright colours and laughing faces, they could forget their hunger and pains for just this once, and that was the trap, wasn't it? Entertain and beguile the smallfolk just long enough that they forget about the chains around their necks for the rest of the year.

While scrutinizing the crowd of lords near them, Daenerys's gaze fell to a rather plump one squeezing his way to the very front, having to cross her path to get there. His light brown, golden hair was greying, his beard lush and thick, the ends plaited into two braids that dangled from his chin, though the beard did nothing to hide the jiggle and huff of his ballooned cheeks. Neither did the gold and ruby belt hide the pot belly wobbling underneath his splendidly embroidered tunic of dusky orange and polished gold. The bejewelled rings on every one of his fingers, some with multiple, reminded her of sausages being squeezed blue, but his smile was large, welcoming and warm. The man beside him, who he was quietly conversing with, however, could not be further from the man with his plaited beard.

He was tall, sturdy and robust, but not fat. Muscles where hidden underneath his jerkin and armour, but there was still a hint of them on show. His face was older now, leathery and lined, but, just like his armour, it did nothing to hide the fact that in his youth, he would have been a very fair and handsome man. He was clean shaven, stern looking, neat, and his shoulder length hair, dyed a shocking blue, hinting at Tyroshi origins, was clasped back at the base of his neck with a leather throng. His sword was long and well looked after, the symbol of the golden company proudly stamped upon the sheath.

Just behind the two, was a third, trailing, but kept close and tight by the people in front of him, almost like they were his personal guards. He was young, perhaps only a year older than herself, but he was tall and lithe, already taller than the Sellsword in front of him, with broad shoulders and a well-formed physic. His face was angular, sharp, carven, and if a man could be described as such, many would name this young man beautiful. Daenerys, however, found them too sharp, too… Clean. She had always thought a bit of gruff and windswept hair far more optically pleasing. In her mind, dark eyes and darker curls flashed, but she pushed that hazy dream away.

The young man had blue hair too, brighter than his fathers, or who she guessed was his father, hinting at him being some-sort of blonde underneath the berry and wine dye. However, unlike the man, his hair held no kink or curl in sight, instead fluttering down his back like slices of ice, thick but fine. His skin too was paler than his fathers, but that could have been due to the dark burgundy of his cotton tunic and black jerkin, clashing with his blue hair. Then, as if feeling her gaze, he looked up and over as they passed her and Viserys a few feet away.

His eyes were large, almost comically so, with pretty lashes all lined up and spiking out. They were an odd colour, she wanted to say blue, but it felt wrong to say so, but they were bright and alive. In the pink and mauve light of dusk, for a heartbeat as he stepped in a crack of light from a building, Daenerys could have sworn they flashed purple, but as he stepped back out of that little line of light, they were back to being that odd blue that wasn't blue and Daenerys put it down to a trick of the light mixed with his outrageous hair. Viserys's ramblings of Targaryens in Volantis had gotten to her, infected her mind, and she too now was seeing things not there that she wished was. So, she resolutely looked away from the young man, and soon, even though she could feel the heat of him still staring at her, he and his companions were swallowed by the gaping crowd.

Viserys's hand upon her elbow snapped her out of her idly watching the crowd, as he pulled her up and onto the big rim of the statue, giving them a head and shoulder glance above the condensing crowd that was growing larger with every passing minute. On instinct, she pushed herself tightly into his side, trying to hide, the thoughts and fears of Sellswords and the golden company once again sapping all joy she could gain from this experience. What if they were spotted? What if there was an assassin, waiting in a shady corner? What if the Triarchs saw them? From this height, they had the perfect view of the podium, of the curving path their elephants would walk up to the stage to address the crowd sectioned off by shiny guards of staffs and still faces. Like statues themselves, keeping the disarray of the crowd at bay.

Daenerys glanced at her brother's face, saw him still searching with scanning eyes, smiling, and for the first time in her life, she was split completely in two. Half of her was terrified, petrified, so focused on the golden company she had seen herself, the Sellswords, the Triarchs who disliked them, the tales her brother had told her, that being so out in the open, crushed between bodies, trapped in a mass of people with no easy way out, made her heart thunder in her chest.

The other half of her felt wonderous, alive, entranced by this showmanship of money, finery and foolery. This half wanted to believe there was a niece of theirs on her way to them right now, it wanted to join in with the celebration, it wanted to feast and dance with all the other people, smallfolk and lords alike. These two sides of her, so different, could not join and her mind, emotions and body felt like it was in a civil war. Nonetheless, that inner war was drowned out as the crowd undulated in noise, cheering, leering, shouting and singing barraging her ears as the first Triarch entered the market space from the northern gate, astride a huge white elephant swathed in rich orange and yellow silks, a little litter keeping the dying sun from the Triarchs face.

"Where are you…"

Her brother was growing impatient as the Triarchs entered in lumbering steps. At his hushed voice, her heart ached even more as her own worries and insecurities won out over her jovial innocence. What would he do when his imagined niece didn't show? Worse, what if she did and only he could see her, lost and trapped in a delusion Daenerys would have no hope of pulling him back from? Her brother was not perfect, he was bitter. He was angry. He was hurting and violent and spat venom as often as he gave comfort. Lately, he was more prone to trashing their room than he was to tell her tales and stories of their family like he used to. Her brother, right before her eyes, was twisting into something malformed, something she could not recognize, but he was her brother, all that she had in this heartless world, and she loved him dearly for all he had done and continued to do despite what it took out of his very being. And as the Triarchs entered and mounted the podium, as they began to address the crowd, with each passing moment he grew more frantic in his search and not even he deserved this.

Then, to hammer the point home, the gates where closed as the people in the market square were forced to play witness to the glory of the Triarchs. With the gates closed, there would be no new people entering, no nieces, and even Viserys in his haze could not deny this fact.

"Where is she? She said she would come! Where… What…"

Daenerys winced, gently laid her bare hand upon his bicep and implored him to step down with her, to find a shadowy corner to hide in until the gates reopened and they could go back to their inn, back to safety, back to the real world where it was just them… Just them. Alone. The thought nearly made her cry, and she had determinedly told herself not to believe in the tale Viserys had spun her, but still, hope was a tricky thing and it had the habit of worming into even the toughest of walls like mould and rot.

"Viserys-"

But she was cut off by the silence that fell upon the crowd as the Triarchs proudly stood upon their elephants like deities reaching for the sky. The middle one, a Nyessos Vhassar if she remembered correctly, opening and bellowing the beginning salutatory to the riveted crowd in the common tongue.

"People of Volantis, we Triarchs declare tonight to be the first night of election! May we feast, celebrate and find joy together over this glorious time of year!"

The crowd bellowed back with cheers and cries of thanks, the lords for the favour of their figure heads, the smallfolk simply happy for the scraps of meat they will get this evening. Nyessos gave a flowery bow to the people, his companions watching on, one unamused. It didn't take Daenerys long to guess who he was. Viserys had warned her of him. Malaquo Maegyr. The only tiger in the Triarchs this year. He was a malicious man with the golden company within his pocket and a hand within the Baratheon treasury.

If Viserys had been attacked by Sellswords this day, like he had told her, it would have been on this man's orders. Unfortunately, it was his gaze that fell upon them, them of all people, lost in the crowd. At once, he raised his hand high and the people and noise died down once more. From how far away she was, she could not tell if he was smiling, not fully, but she knew he was and she knew it was a vicious thing, twisted and ill.

"It seems we have esteemed guests to hold company with this evening, fellow lords!"

He pointed in their general direction with a lazy swoop of his arm, and slowly, the people turned, first puzzled before their gazes trailed to them. Soon, they were singled out as the people began to back away from them, as if they were contagious and poisoned. Daenerys could hear her heart in her ears like the minstrels and troubadours drum as she latched onto Viserys's arm, tugging, not sure where to turn to or if they should try to hide or run. Maegyr, however, was not finished.

"The Targaryens have wiggled out of their hole to come and see some finery and class. How very ostentatious for us!"

"Viserys, please, don't-"

She tried, but it was too late. Her brother looked ready to implode, the degradation, humiliation and contempt too much for him to handle. Daenerys tugged firmer, but her brother stayed still, and worse, Maegyr jeered at them once again.

"Tell me, do you need a place of rest tonight? I am sure I can offer your sister a lovely brothel to… Find a bed in."

The crowd laughed, the fools danced and even the remaining Triarchs leered and chortled. Maegyr was mentioning the first time they had entered Volantis, a few months ago, where Viserys had asked the Triarchs permission for he and her to stay within the inner city, where it would have been safer, but their favour was already dead long before they left Lys's docks and washed up on Volantis soil. Of course, this scorn, the denial of entrance, it had all been political. They held Valyrian blood, purer than any on those elephants could claim, and that was a dangerous thing for them. In a city where their government and heads were all decided on whose blood was purest, who was more Valyrian, having a Targaryen within your walls was beyond dangerous for your own standing. And so, the Triarchs had thrown them into the gutter, laughing, in a show to dirty them and their name, hoping their humiliation and continued depredation would set the people against them so they could never rise.

This, the threat of prostituting her out, seemed to be the last straw her brother could take as he stepped down from the statue, cheeks flushing as the crowd parted as if he could dirty them with his presence. Daenerys tried to pull him back, to plead with him to leave it be, that they could not afford to earn the full wrath of the Triarchs, but he was already lost to her and won by his anger. He bellowed back.

"How about I find you a pike for your weary head to rest upon!"

Her panicky attempts to calm her brother were too late, they always were, and in one fell swoop, he had crossed the one line that the Triarchs would never allow anyone, even they, to cross. The open declaration against one of their lives. Worst of all, there was a crowd of witnesses to placate, to send the message that this sort of behaviour was unforgivable. There would be only one sentence to this, a charge many before them had faced. Death.

The crowd seemed to press in on itself, searching for safety in numbers, people who had been standing right next to them now cowering, recoiling, as if proximity to them would lay blame right at their feet too. Through this all, at the front of the crowd circling them, stepped out the fat, golden lord she had seen before, bowing low to Maegyr. His voice was higher than what she expected, smoother too, like a lullaby sung to a crying babe.

"My high Triarch Maegyr, do not take this hideous offence personally! These are my guests! Young Viserys has been ill lately, a fever I believe, and I fear our healer has given him too much milk of the poppy. It has clouded his judgement and-"

Daenerys stomped down on the urge to deny what he was saying, for she had never seen this lord before today, she had never graced his hearth or home and the lie was blatant, but she realised what this attempt was before she could blurt out a rejection. It was a sloppy endeavour to divert the hunger Maegyr felt for their heads, although, she could not understand why this lord would try such a task, for he owed them nothing and they had near to nothing to give. Nonetheless, Maegyr was not shy in showing his want and desire of their demise, even from their early days within Volantis, and having been given the perfect opportunity to exact just that within Volantis's own laws, laws he and his fellow Triarchs had made themselves, he would not be easily thrown from the path.

"Ah, Illyrio Mopatis, a dear and trusted friend of ours from Pentos. We favour your advice, but this is not the time for counsel, but a time for action… Guards, bring forth the Targaryens!"

The guards were like a well manned ship, silent, slick, fast in the water, as they straightened from their posts around the podium, marching in sync to her and Viserys's location near the statue. Her heart leapt into her throat, Viserys reached over and pulled her close to his side, unsheathing his sword though he must have had no hope in actually winning any fight with the magnitude of the guards. Then…

Then they stopped, caught half way between the Targaryens and the Triarchs, just as a strange wind, heavy and billowing, swept through the enclosed market that had turned into a farce of a court. Due to the high buildings, the hot sun and clear skies, wind was not common in Volantis, especially the inner districts, unless you were at the open docks, and the strength of the gust was an oddity not easily ignored. She could not tell you why, how, but her gaze fell to the dusty, pebbled floor, and from the corner of her eye, she saw many mirroring her movement.

The few pebbles and stones were still, but slowly, they began to shake, dust kicking up from the wind as they began to bounce on the floor, the wind now coming in and around like beats of a drum, sweeping in strong and then dying in their throats. Then… Then it happened. Something thick, dark, shadowy fell upon them, all of them, a great shadow beast swallowing the evening sun whole and before anyone could look up and see what was blocking out the light and sky… The fire came.

The sky above them, over the city, atop their heads set ablaze in magnificent burnt orange and cindering yellow and crimson, just low enough to feel the dense heat scorch and crisp at their skin, a flash of unholy light nearly blinding them, hinting at what would come if it came closer, but high enough to leave them all unburnt, enveloped the air. People screamed, a Triarch fell off his elephant, the other two blindly scrambled off as the fire chugged and crisped through the air, unnaturally bright and hot. As the fire raged in the sky, Daenerys thought for a moment, just one, that the sun itself was falling upon them.

Most guards ran, some slipped in tight around the podium and their Triarchs, forever loyal. Lords and commoners alike fell to the floor, ducking, arms raising over their heads as screaming and mayhem rained down upon them. People began to push for the gates, but they had been locked, leaving a whirlpool of people to squish and bar the exits, piles forming that threatened suffocation.

Throughout this all, through the fire, screams of anguish and fear and frantic attempts to flee, Daenerys and Viserys stood where they were, huddled together, faces turned to the sky, eyes wide and breaths faltering, but still unable to do anything but watch the fire roll in around them like a storm cloud, and it was then, through the smoke and fire, that Daenerys knew it wasn't the sun falling upon them, it was no magic, it was no air combustion.

The first thing to appear out of the flames, as if it was a veil to another world, a world of bygone eras and dead things wrought to life through fire, was the snout. Huge, bumpy, ridged, spines lining its flared and smoking nostrils. The mouth came next, sharp teeth glittering orange from the few flames that licked between the empty spaces of its mouth, maw open, gaping, black tongue cindering. The slit of its large mouth was wide and gave it a look of smirking. Then came the eyes, slits of yellow and red, the claws, black and as big as swords, the wings, radiating silver scales. Soon, it was all there, all in splendid, prideful display of fury and fire as the flames in the sky died out to thick smoke.

"Dragon…"

It was all she could say, like repeating an holy prayer of a dying monk, all her tongue could form, all her mind could think of as she stared up at the sky as it reared and curved through the air. Viserys's grip tightened on her, his own breathing fast and erratic, but not due to fear, no. Excitement. She could feel it to, the humming in her blood, the pound of her heart, the wonder in her eyes. A dragon. A dragon, right before them. As it swooped down closer, as close as the flames had been, its monstrous size once more blocked out the dying sun and sky, as if it had taken the suns flames and heat for itself.

It was proud, glorious, dancing as its wings beat and the wind swelled harder as it skimmed through the air in an arching circle around the market, watching, as if it was searching for something, or someone. It was only as it turned to follow the curve of the opposite side of the market place that Daenerys saw what was sitting upon its muscled neck. White hair, curling, let loose and rebellious was fluttering through their flight, a person… A woman… A girl, younger than Daenerys herself… A Targaryen, sitting regally, comfortably in a cluster of its neck spines, as if it was a throne formed just for her, as if she was born upon that dragon, searching the market as agitatedly as her dragon did.

Then, the woman's eyes landed upon them, green like wildfire, and disjointedly, as Viserys spoke, shouted, stepped away from her and smiled so brightly at the dragon and the girl, she realised he had been right and not struck by madness.

"Haraella!"

She had a niece… They had a niece… There was another Targaryen… A niece… With a dragon… She couldn't think, she couldn't form a fully fledge thought, she couldn't breathe a full lung full of air, she couldn't stop the swirling. Haraella shouted something in a hissing tongue as the dragon dipped towards them, more reptilian than human, as the two angled down low and hard, forcing the crowd to flop to the floor to stop the wind and wings from clipping them as they glided to the ground gracefully. The sky beast landed right besides Daenerys and Viserys, people screamed themselves raw and the ground gave a rumble at the added weight.

The frantic rush grew monstrous, everything was chaos, and Daenerys could only watch and stare at the dragon, so tall, so proud, a nightmare masquerading as a dream come to life, as it dug its claws into the dirt beneath it, centering itself, long neck slinking. She could hardly pull herself away to acknowledge the girl on the dragon, Haraella… Her niece, who from upon high, grinned down upon them, eyes, dimples and teeth flashing as hotly as the flames she and her dragon had burst from.

"I am not late to the party, I hope?"

Viserys, Daenerys… They laughed, tears misted their eyes. She wept and she laughed and cried, and she feared and she was joyed and she was shattering to a million pieces which she could not hold one long enough to settle on a reaction. There was a dragon, right in front of her… A niece too. Family. Shock. She was in shock. Viserys however, was delirious as he laughed up at Haraella.

"No, I believe you came just in time for the best part! Vaenora, I assume?"

Haraella chuckled once more and gave a sharp nod.

"Aye, this is Vaenora, my dragon."

There was a distinct ownership in the way she said _my_ , not misplaced and unmistakable. There was pride in her voice too, like a mother talking of her favourite child, her darling babe, and then the screaming got too much for her niece apparently, as she turned towards the crowd.

"Silence!"

The screaming and crying seemed only to get worse. Haraella huffed, her neck cracking as she rolled it, and then looked down to her dragon as she spoke something in that strange hissing language of hers. The dragon reacted, rearing back, standing on its hind legs, roaring to the open sky. Daenerys flinched on instinct, Viserys, however, was enraptured by the scene, drawn to it as he stepped closer. In her mind, Daenerys could still feel the heat of the fire and it made her weary. On the tail end of its war cry, Haraella addressed the crowd once more, voice almost as vicious and deep as the roar of her dragon.

"I said silence!"

It was a terrifying and exhilarating site to witness. Her niece, there, reared back upon a dragon's neck and head, shouting on the end of an ear shattering roar. It was something from the tales of old, from Aegon's time, as the crowd fell deathly quiet, still as stone, quaking as the dragon adjusted itself to a stand once more. Only when she was assured that they would not scream any longer, did Haraella nod to herself, coming to a stand, the dragon, in a well-practised move, curled its long, spiny tail to around its neck, creating a little platform for Haraella to step down from. Her feet touched the ground directly in front of them, as she fiddled with the tight gloves on her hand. Once on the floor, she caressed the side of Vaenora.

"Vaenora, guard."

The dragon folded in around them, like a chest, tail rapping, legs boxing, spines interlocking, wing arching over and fisting into the floor like a pike to create a canopy and before Daenerys could blink, the Dragon had barricaded them off from the world, secured them in the safety of its side and limbs, wrapped them in dragon scale and claw. Their own pavilion of death and fire.

In the fading sun, with the Dragon blocking out most light, Haraella looked like a phantom from era's gone. Dressed in leather from head to toe, tight and thick and protective, dyed the colour of onyx, her hair and skin and eyes looked wild, emeralds lost in a snow drift, imposing and ethereal, but her face was open and warm, rich with charm and easy with grace.

She took the necessary few steps separating them from her in the small dome the dragon had created, so she could speak openly and quietly without witnesses from the outside hearing, though Daenerys guessed the thick hide of the dragon would dampen out most noise, when the mask of regality, imposing dignity and age seemed to drift off her skin like rainwater. In the safety of the dragons embrace, she no longer looked like a queen militant, old and wise beyond her years and ready for war, but she looked like the girl she was. Sixteen, young, playful, a little sheepish and grinning ear from ear in an almost embarrassed flush as she hesitantly scratched the back of her head.

"I told you I would be back. I just had to get changed, I couldn't exactly turn up in rags and I had no idea what people around here wear, so I had to find a woman, she was lovely and-… Well, lets just say I took more time than I thought I would and-"

She cut a gaze between the two of them and must have realized she was rambling as she winced. Her arm flopped back down to her side, and she fully turned her attention to Daenerys. Daenerys, herself, fought down the urge to hide behind Viserys, unused to such a searching, scanning gaze upon her as Haraella ran her eyes up and down her form. For a while, Daenerys thought she was unimpressed with what she saw, Daenerys knew she was when she looked in the mirror, too soft, too plump, too young looking, innocent, not womanly. But then she grinned once more, reached over and enveloped her into a hug so strong and tight, it lifted Daenerys off her feet.

"It's nice to meet you, I'm Haraella."

Then Haraella dropped her unceremoniously back onto her feet, clapping her on the shoulders like a bawdy tavern goer. Daenerys, jumbled, fractured, shocked, could only stutter.

"I, you too… I-… Dragon…"

Haraella pulled away, reaching up high over her head to delicately run a finger over the thick but half translucent skin of Vaenora's bowing wing, following a black veign. In return, the great beast shivered in delight, just a little flutter of pleasure at the caress.

"Yes, I admit it shocks quite a few people. But I thought you believed in dragons? Surely, it's not that surprising if you have their skulls? Viserys said, here, everyone knew of dragons?"

Daenerys still couldn't form a full thought, let alone a sentence as she saw the glittering eyes of the beast as it turned to look at them from underneath it's wing, as if it knew they were speaking of it. Perhaps it did as its pupil tightened upon her, warningly, as if it didn't like the way she was thinking of Vaenora.

"I-,… Yes, but they're gone now… Died… Out…"

Haraella's hand dropped once more, shrugging nonchalantly as if she was simply presenting them with a three-eyed newt rather than a huge dragon.

"Well, evidently, not all of them."

In their little cluster, guarded by a beast thought long extinct, mythical to some, they were in their own little world of wonder and magnificence, so much so, that Daenerys had half forgotten what waited outside of their little bubble. That, however, was soon rectified by a high-pitched voice shouting from outside, Nyessos, quivering and tremulous, muffled by the dragon coiled around them, as he tried to speak to them.

"I-… We-… The… We wel-… We welcome you to the grand city of Vol-… Volantis.-"

Maegyr joined him, offering warm welcome, the man who was about to order their death, was now stuttering like a babe learning to talk, greeting them as if they were kings and queens. Daenerys could not see Haraella's face as she turned to glance behind her, towards the Triarchs, where the voices were coming from, as if she could see through her dragon, perhaps she could, Daenerys did not know and after today's happenings, she would never put anything beyond possibility again, but when she turned back, her features were grim, angry, harsh, all charm and grace and amicable gone. Gone was the sixteen-year-old girl and in her place, once more, stood the queen militant of bygone ages. Her words were final too.

"We shall speak more later… After we deal with these _fine_ people."

However, before she spoke to her dragon or addressed anyone from outside their little world, she pulled in tight, eyes keen and glinting.

"Look, I do not know this land, I do not know it's people, it's law. To win this hand, I'm going to need help. Your help. Namely you two stepping in to fill my blanks. If I waver out there, if I fall silent, confused, step in and fill it for me. Quickly. We need to show a united front here. We've always known each other, we're one, together. They can't know there is any distance or unknown between us, for they will use that against us. They'll be looking for any form of weakness and we cannot, no matter what, give them a sniff of it. Understand?"

She pulled back, gliding to the rim of the little dome, right where the voices had come from, where the dragon had peeped at Daenerys from underneath its arm. Viserys was the first to answer her, silently, as he straightened out his tunic, sheathed his sword, nodded and stepped to her side, standing tall, dignified and undaunted by what was to come. Yet, Daenerys shivered, standing alone on the other side of them as they turned to face her. She felt cold, very, very cold.

Standing side by side, a whisper passing between the two as they leant towards each other, under the shade of the dragon's wing and body, they looked powerful. Their fine clothes and handsome features giving them an air of divinity… A king and queen of shadow and smoke. She felt like a bystander witnessing a coronation… But then Haraella lifted a hand out towards her, palm up, smiling.

"I can't do this without you either."

Daenerys wished it was that simple, that strength and bravery could be transferred through skin, for she would soak up all Haraella had to offer. She would not lie, she feared easily, strongly, resolutely. She had always been the quiet one, the nervous lamb, the one cast to the shadows from Viserys's fire. This hand, the hand of her niece, was offering her a way to the light, a way to be the light like she had dreamed so often and the thought, the journey she would have to take to become that, scared her. What was to come would take bravery, and so far, she felt she even lacked enough to reach and grab the hand of her niece.

"Look, right now, we may not have it all together… But together, we can have it all."

Haraella was right. This could be the start of their house once more, the rise from ashes and discord, the glory age. And here she was, a descendant of Aegon, Visenya, Rhaenys, Jaehaerys, Daemon, all her mighty ancestors, dithering like a wet child being scolded. She was a dragon too, she held the blood of old Valyria as much as anyone else, and she deserved her own form of retribution on those who have and would do her wrong. It was time to stop being a scared child, spirited away from Dragonstone all those years ago, motherless, and become the Targaryen she always knew she could be.

As she blinked, she saw something on the back of her eyelids. A ghost. A dream. A hazy memory. A throne, spiky and sharp, a dragon, made from all silver and white seawater waves curled around it, more made from paper and jewels flying above them. Three shadows, faceless, proudly there, one sitting on the jagged throne, the other two standing at the side, just as regal. There were two more in front of the trio, down the steps, talking, laughing, a woman and a man. White and black, draped in furs, happy and laughing, frost at their feet and the woman with a blue rose blossoming on her stomach… She blinked and the image was gone and she found herself with her hand in Haraella's.

Haraella grinned at Daenerys and Daenerys walked to her side, head held high as her and Viserys pushed her into the middle, safe, leading, the head to their little trio. Bravery, after all, was not a virtue, a personality trait. It was a choice. Daenerys, after her life of running and humiliation, chose to be brave. With a hissing command, the dragon unfurled, and they greeted the world together. As one.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER: ? P.O.V (If you've read the books, I'm pretty sure you've already guessed who it is XD)**

* * *

 **NOTES ON THIS CHAPTER:**

1\. I know Daenerys seems a bit meek and timid this chapter, but she was sort of that way in the beginning of Game of Thrones and I wanted to keep that, and her character development, authentic and as close to the show/books as I can. Of course, in this fic she's going to have different reasons for becoming tougher and stronger, but she will still have that journey. (Fear not, we will get the bad ass Daenerys we all know and love... Eventually ;))

2\. This chapter became a whopping 17,000 words, so I decided to split it into two and to change the P.O.V of the next part as it just fits better and adds a stronger flow to the story. Hence why this chapter is called part one.

3\. Because, as someone rightly pointed out, my A.N were getting monstrously huge, I took to answering questions from reviews in private P. Ms. How do you guys feel about this? Do you want me to change back and include a questions and answers segment, as most of you, if not interested, could skip the Q&A section, or do you like it this way? Let me know!

 _ **THANK YOU**_ for all the reviews! They honestly keep me coming back to this fic and pondering, working and tweaking the plot, bringing up angles I never even considered to explore before. This chapter is for you and I hope you enjoyed it, I really do!

If you have any questions, don't be afraid to ask, discussing topics/themes/questions with you guys is, honestly, half the fun of writing these fics in the first place. (You guys keep me on my toes!)

As always, drop a review, there should be a little box around here somewhere for you to tap up a few words in and press send! Cheers darlings!

Until next time, stay beautiful! ~ _AlwaysEatTheRude21_

 _ **on the left side, in red, is the Targaryens, and on the right, in blue, are the Triarchs. Get ready, aaaaaaaaannnnnnnddd... Fight!**_


	5. The Fall of Volantis: Part Two

_**CHAPTER MIX TAPE:**_

 _ **Imagine Dragons: Whatever it takes.**_

 _ **Sin Shake Sin: Can't go to hell.**_

 _ **Halsey: Castle.**_

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 _ **THE FALL OF VOLANTIS: PART II:**_

 _ **THE GREAT GAME**_

* * *

 **JON CONNINGTON P.O.V**

Jon Connington was an old man. There was no denying that fact. He was an old man in an aging body, with weary bones, a restless mind and a pair of eyes that had seen the worst and the best humanity had to offer in equal shades. Nearing forty, he had done things, survived things, witnessed things that he believed no man or woman could claim.

Of course, like many sons of lords, like his own father, Armond Connington, lord of Griffin's roost, he had once been an energetic, proud, reckless boy with an insatiable thirst for glory. If Jon had to recount the first event that led him onto the path of being here, staring down the face of a dragon, he would say it was when he was squired to house Targaryen, to his silver prince, Rhaegar.

He had loved that man. He had loved him so greatly, so purely, that even now, it was his memory that kept Jon going. They had all been happy once, with golden days and warm nights, merry and vitalized with the elixir of youth. But, like with every childhood, it had come to an end and theirs, the Targaryen's, his own, the Martell's, and many others came to a crashing halt by Roberts rebellion.

When Robert's usurpation was in full swing, king Aerys II dismissed his own hand of the king, an Owen Merryweather, believing him to be in league with the rebels. Of course, by this point, the mad king had very well earnt his name, and the paranoia surrounding his court was nearly enough to choke the very air from your lungs. Yet, it had not been for Aerys that Jon had stayed, he had stayed for Rhaegar, for Rhaegar's children, and when the frivolous king wanted to match Robert Baratheon step for step, believing electing someone as young and vigorous as he as Aerys's next hand of the king, when offered, it was, once again, for Rhaegar and his children that Jon had accepted the offer, despite the risk it took to him and his own family should the tides of war sweep them over, or for the mad kings paranoid eyes to turn to him in accusation for another lost battle.

However, he had been young, foolish, impetuous. Furthermore, he had been right. It didn't take long for the rage and blame of the mad king to fall upon his shoulders. In a foolishly sanctimonious act that only the young and arrogant can attain, Jon had promised the king Robert's head. He had gathered his own livery and men, supplementing those the king ordered to his service, and he had marched into the field with only victorious glory on his mind.

After the battle of Ashford, Jon had taken over from the Tyrell's in the tracking of Robert, which led Jon and his men to the Stoney Sept in the Riverlands. Taking hostages and offering grand rewards for any word or sign of the crown's traitors, Jon and his men began a house to house investigation for Robert. However, that bloody Lord Eddard Stark and fucking Hoster Tully were faster than he, arriving at Stoney Sept with their allied forces, ousting Jon and his men who had not expected to be met by such numbers.

Nonetheless, his arrogance back then had been unsurmountable, and Jon had fought back with everything he had, killing Lord Jon Arryn's nephew and heir at the time, Ser Denys Arryn, as well as wounding Lord Tully. Still, they were outmanned, outmanoeuvred and outmatched and eventually, retreat was their only option and that was the loss of the Battle of the Bells. That single loss had also stripped him of everything he had, everything he was, everything he _could_ have been.

King Aerys, lost in fury and madness, held Jon solely responsible for the crushing defeat. He stripped him of his titles, his land, passing the rule of Griffin's roost to Ser Ronald Connington, a cousin who Jon had made castellan as he fought the kings war. Worst of all, the king exiled him, packed him onto a ship with nothing but the jerkin upon his back, and sailed him off to Essos, away from his lands, his people, his home. The only place he had ever known.

Before he had even reached the shores of Essos, a plan already formulating in his young and naive mind to smuggle himself back into Westeros to help his silver prince, word had reached him that Rhaegar had already died by the hand of Robert Baratheon at the Tridant and the king had been killed in the sack of kings landing, along with most of the other Targaryens, including Rhaegar's children in which Jon had sworn to Rhaegar he would protect.

In exile with no land or money, only his sword hand, Jon had quickly fallen to joining the Golden company, which he had faithfully served for five years. Rhaegar, Rhaegar's children, his oath and all memories of Westeros, of home and laughter, were the only things to keep him warm in his desolate exile. When prodded about his defeat at the Battle of the Bells, Jon had always defended his actions, for, had he been Tywin, he would have burnt the Sept down, never caring or sparing a thought to civilian casualties.

In full honesty, Jon could not remember much of those five years. He had drunk himself to sleep every night, dabbled in too much milk of the poppy despite his health being good, and had worked himself to exhaustion to keep his guilt at failure from eating him from the inside out. However, when the five years were past, he did remember being approached by Illyrio Mopatis and, surprisingly enough, Lord Varys, who informed him in a shady corner of an ill tavern that not all hope had been lost when kings landing had been sacked.

Aegon, Rhaegar's first born son to his wife Elia Martell, was alive. According to Lord Varys, with the help of Elia, the two had swapped the real Aegon with a mummers boy, orphaned by childbirth. When Twyin, the fucking traitorous cunt that he was, opened the gates of kings landing for Robert and began to sack the town he had sworn to protect, Aegon was already being smuggled from the red keep. When Gregor Clegane climbed that steep, when he murdered poor Rhaenys, raped Elia and dashed the mummers boy's skull in, the real heir had been safely extracted from danger.

Jon had denied the story at first, reverently. The Targaryen's were gone, dead, the last two, a Viserys and Daenerys having been squirrelled away by Ser Willam Darry who died shortly after, leaving the children to the crows. Of course, Jon had tried to find the two, but by the time he reached Willam Darry's estate, the house was barren, cold, empty and Jon had thought he had failed all over again. In truth, he just could not accept another failure on his part. So, he denied it.

Denied it all until they showed him the six-year-old lad, with his soft silver hair and violet eyes. He had looked so much like Rhaegar, rounded and softened by youth and babe fat, but Rhaegar was there, staring back at him from the boys features and wide, curious stare. Jon Connington had not failed, not completely, he had not broken his oath to Rhaegar to protect his children, or, more aptly, he didn't need to break it if he took Lord Varys's offer. He couldn't fail his silver prince again.

However, one did not simply leave the Golden Company, and as much as it pained Jon to dirty the last thing he had, his name, he would do so a thousand times more if it meant he could keep at least one promise. With the help of Lord Varys, Jon was _caught_ stealing from the company's war chests, and was forced to flee in dishonour. Afterwards, as news spread, it did not take much effort to spread the rumour of his demise, drinking himself to death from shame in Lys, to cover their tracks. The ploy had been so well done, the news of his death travelled to Westeros itself, enabling him to focus on raising and protecting Aegon out of reach from Robert, now under the name of young Griff, and he in the guise of Griff, the boys doting and protective father. It had been twelve years since then.

They had spent those twelve years wisely. Jon taught everything he knew to Aegon, bought him tutors from the coin he managed to earn from ship work, a trade both of them took up in time to cement their story, from the small fund Varys sent them on occasion, and groomed him to be a just, rational, if but a bit hot tempered, young man who Jon was sure Rhaegar would have been proud to see. Aegon lapped it all up like a kit drinking milk. He learnt of Westeros, of their lords and customs, of language, swordplay and sums and poetry and music, of politics and war-fare. By the time Aegon reached his eighth and tenth name day, he was close to being the heir Jon knew he could be, and in time, when it was right for them to strike, he would seat Rhaegar's son on the Iron Throne like he had been born to take.

Of course, Jon had heard of Daenerys and Viserys's survival of Willam Darry's death, he had heard of the sparse rumours of their travels around Essos, but he could not bring himself to search them out. His oath had been to protect Rhaegar's children, Aegon, and with Robert's eyes firmly planted on the two, it would have been dangerous to put Aegon out in the open with them. For, while Robert was looking at Aegon's aunt and uncle, children themselves, he would not sniff out Aegon and so, Jon Connington turned his back on the two.

Was he proud of his behaviour? Of course not. It sickened him. Haunted him. When Aegon asked about his aunt and uncle, Jon fed him pleasant lies about a life in Pentos, of safety and wealth and well wishes. Half the time, he believed his own lies too, so slick were they. But as Aegon grew to be more and more like his father each day, his love, he could not and would not risk him, even if it damned his own soul in the eyes of the seven. Jon could almost laugh, if Daeron had still been alive, the seven would have no fury to match his if he saw his family abandoned or hurt by one who had sworn otherwise. But, he wasn't, and so, Jon would wait for his judgement when he passed to the seven.

Jon Connington was an old man. There was no denying that fact. He was an old man in an aging body, with weary bones, a restless mind and a pair of eyes that had seen the worst and the best humanity had to offer in equal shades. Nearing forty, he had done things, survived things, witnessed things that he believed no man or woman could claim… And then came the dragon.

He had been in Volantis to gather more funds from Illyrio, who, having bought Nyessos eight times over, had been all too willing to see his bribed piglet take the Triarch seat once more. For once, instead of keeping Aegon, or young Griff as he went by currently, stationed safely on their boat, he had let the lad tag along, hoping he would learn a few things from the underhanded politics he would witness from this farce of an election.

There had been a moment, right before the chaos had come barrelling around them, that Aegon had been frantic, adamant he had seen his aunt and uncle in the crowd, but Jon brushed it off. The last he had heard, the two were in Lys, and Volantis was no place for a Targaryen, the Triarchs would make sure of that. Even they could not be desperate enough to come to this convoluted, rotten city.

But, yet again, he had been wrong. The Triarchs had spotted them, taunted them, and as Maegyr called for their heads, Jon, despite having turned his back on them once before, could not witness their deaths, and so he had went to draw his own sword to help the young Viserys in keeping the guards marching towards them at bay as they tried to flee. However, Illyrio had placed his hand upon his own, clasped tightly around his swords handle, and shook his head. Illyrio had then waddled out into the open space, pleaded, but was ignored.

Then the sky had burst into flame, mayhem bubbled out and frothed, and the seven hells had broken loose as a dragon, monstrous, gleaming, huge, descended upon them. Even more Jarring to Jon had been the fucking Targaryen riding upon it. He had wrangled Aegon into his grasp, covering his body with his own, the heat singing his hair as he tried to push them into a corner, only getting as far as the podium, as Illyrio re-joined them, ducking down low and pushing hard against a wooden pillar, hoping the stage would conceal them.

"A dragon… Jon… There's a dragon!"

In his shock, Aegon had slipped, but he could not blame him, for himself too felt dizzy and disorientated as he watched the beast land and roar to the sky, the woman, a girl, younger than Aegon, shouting for silence. Aegon had tried to free himself from Jon's grasp, but he kept him in tight, as the girl slid off the dragon and strolled towards Viserys and Daenerys. Then, the Dragon was wrapping around them, barricading them off and the silence felt so thick and heavy that Jon's head swam as if he was drowning. From his vantage point, close to the Triarchs, he could not see the girl fully, but he had seen her pale skin and silver hair, saw her on the dragon's back and could only think one word.

 _Targaryen._

But how? Who? Was she a bastard, begotten by one of Aerys's whores? Was she a distant cousin? No, the features normally bled out when the Targaryens spread their blood too thinly, and there was no mistaking this girl's ancestry.

"Jon, let me go!"

Jon only squeezed Aegon closer, breath heavy and hot as he snarled into his ear, eyes locked upon the dragon who, for a moment, looked back at him with fire in its slit pupil. None of the guards, the Sellswords or knights moved an inch, all to singularly aware that even they, in mass number, had no hope in pulling down a dragon. Not one the size of a Sept.

"Do not be foolish boy! Whoever she is, wherever she or this dragon has come from, they are not here to feast or to share wine with us!"

He couldn't let confusion, wonder, or fear of this appearance of the dragon and girl, unseat him from his quest to protect Aegon. So, he took a deep breath, settled his mind and tried to think of a way out. Just as Aegon thrashed once more, wiggling free from his boxed hold, the Triarchs regained some of their composure, ventured forward, just before Jon, Aegon and Illyrio, as they tried to coax the three out with honeyed words. There was no doubt in Jon's mind that they were signing their own death sentences.

"I know her! I've seen her! It's the girl with the glowing stone! The girl in the small room under the wooden stairs! The girl with the rubied sword and the giant snake! It's the girl who flies on dragons and swims with mermaids! It's the girl from the graveyard of bones, of death and war and-"

Right then, as Aegon ranted at him, cheeks flushing and eyes hot, wide and blown, he saw a madness there. A madness that terrified him. Jon reached out and clasped tightly, with both hands, the front of Aegon's Jerkin, swivelling to push him against the pillar.

"Dreams Griff! They were just dreams! Now snap out of it lad, we need to keep quiet and get the seven hells out of here!"

Perhaps he had pushed him into the pillar too hard, but Jon couldn't stand it, couldn't bear to see it, that madness, that heat in his eyes. It reminded Jon of the look Aerys had in his later years, withered and rocking, mumbling on the throne, and no son of Rhaegar could have that look. Not to Jon. It was just the shock, he was in shock, they all were. The dragon, the sight, the fire, it wrought a touch of hysteria to them all and Aegon was simply remembering the dreams he often had since he could talk.

However, Jon was forced to slink back towards his pillar as the great sky beast uncoiled, Viserys, Daenerys, headed by the new comer, spearheading their little trio as they sauntered towards the sweating and shaky Triarchs, shoulders back, heads held proudly. The youngest, the girl with no name, spoke first.

"I am Haraella Targaryen, daughter of Lily Targaryen and Daeron Targaryen."

Even though she was small in stature, she somehow managed to appear to look down her nose at the three Triarchs, her presence unbound by skin and bone, wide, formidable. She was, from Jon's shaded corner half hidden underneath the stage, close enough now to fully gaze upon, and what Jon saw, coupled with her speech, churned his gut. When she fell silent, as if that was all the introduction she had, Viserys stepped in for her, chin tilting disdainfully.

"Second son to his grace, Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, king of the Andals and the first men, lord of the seven kingdoms, and protector of the realm. Like his father before him, and his before his."

Jon was not interested in the affirmation of their royalty, kings and queens and prince and princess without land or crown, no. He was too swept up in the girl herself. _Daeron._ Yet again, he wanted to deny it, he was getting good at rejection, but how could he? If Rhaegar had been his one love, his silver prince, Daeron had been his champion, his one, true friend.

Daeron had been the one to squire him to his brother after seeing him spar at Griffin's roost. He had taken Jon under his wing, despite not being much older than he, and taught him the true art of the sword, as well as how to hold his wine. Daeron had listened to his woes, his complaints, his boisterous arrogance and had slapped him on the back, ordered him to pick himself up and get back to standing tall when he fell. Daeron had not been one to let life's woes drag him under, for the weight of a situation to leave him idle and on his toes and he wouldn't suffer those in his presence to do the same either.

Daeron had been like quicksilver. Fast, deceptively heavy, uncontainable. He had laughed as hard as he had thrown a punch, more likely to bite you with his words than he was to comfort you, and above all, he had loved his family more than any man Jon had ever seen. In the end, that was what killed him. His love for his family.

But it hadn't, had it not? If this girl was here, as young as she was, it meant he had survived, fathered his own branch to the Targaryen tree. And as he looked upon the girl, really looked, his gut squirmed as if it was filled with maggots.

She was all her father, every bit, down to the rare preference for the left hand, to the very playful but condescending cock of one brow. Worst, or best of all, Jon could not decide quite yet, from the way she scorched the Triarchs with her blazing, eerie green eyes, the only thing she had not inherited from her father, she held his undiluted fury when their family was threatened. Just like all those years ago, when he was faced with Rhaegar's son, Aegon, Jon couldn't deny it as much as he had originally wished to.

The Triarchs had lapsed into stunned silence, unsure and unsteady of their next move, the crowd around them, all huddling in corners, as still as a placid pond, rooted to the ground by fear, and the dragon lurched forward a step, coming to the Targaryen's back casting the whole area in front of it in blackened shadow. Viserys barked at them, enjoying the flicker of fright that shivered through their bodies as the dragon towered above them.

"Kneel! You are in the presence of royalty!"

Jon knew, irrevocably, that it wasn't the dragon they needed to fear, at least not the one covered in silver scales, not in the face of the daughter of Daeron, not when she held her father's passion for family. The Triarchs fell like puppets with their strings cut, Maegyr descending last, as if it pained him to do so, to be brought so low, off his high elephant, down to the grubby floor with the rest of the smallfolk.

Haraella smiled, dazzlingly, and then, right then, Jon knew the three were doomed. He had seen that smile before on Daeron's face, right before he began a game of cyvasse and he knew he would win even before the first rabble was moved.

"Of course, you know my aunt and uncle already. Do you not? Did you kneel to them too?"

She slinked forward, pulling away from her aunt and uncle as she began to circle the three on the floor, footsteps light and dancing. Aegon jerked forward, his mouth opening but Jon was faster, shoving him back, rough, callused hand coming up to bear down upon his mouth to clamp it tightly shut, keeping his limb there so Aegon could only breathe through his nose.

The girl had war in her eyes and spite on her tongue, now, if ever, was not the time to intervene. The way she prowled around the broken Triarchs, like a cat playing with a mouse, only solidified that notion within Jon. They needed to keep quiet, out of the way, and as soon as possible, they needed to leave. Haraella, the dragon, they changed the game completely.

 _It changed the fucking world._

"We are honoured to have you in our grand halls! All of you, the great children of the Targaryen dynasty! Ask, and it shall be yours!"

Nyessos, as pleasant as he had made his voice be, could not remove the stain of tremor and fear completely. If possible, Haraella's grin grew, her fangs glinting in the dying sun. She glanced behind her, locked eyes with Viserys and if at all feasible, Jon would swear an oath that the two were speaking through their minds. After a heart stopping bout of silence, she slowly turned back to the Triarchs, eyes sliding over to Nyessos and the man, the fully grown man who had led Volantis, spat in the face of rebellious smallfolk, and sat upon high like nothing could ever touch him, wilted further, sagging into the ground.

"Really? For I am sure my aunt and uncle have asked for a place to sleep and you threatened to prostitute my aunt out like a common whore? Then, if I am not mistaken, when my uncle went to defend my aunts honour, you threatened death upon him and my aunt?"

Her gaze was as quick as a blade as it sliced to Doniphos, as the man piped up in a moment of bravery. A moment, Jon was sure, he would pay dearly for.

"A simple misunderstandin-"

The smile was gone, the pleasantries dead, the façade of a civil conversation decayed and rotten. She was like thunder and lightning, blood and death and anger storming underneath the thin wrap of her pale skin, breaking free to terrify the world as she flung forward, faster than a blink of an eye, bending down low to get into Doniphos's face as she grabbed at his jaw, fingers indenting in his cheeks harshly, pinning his head back to look at her in the eye.

"Simple? You believe the harm, execution and degradation of my family is simple?"

Her voice roared, louder than Jon thought possible, jagged, harsh, more dragon than human. Doniphos flinched, tried fruitlessly to shake his head from her pinned hand, and violently denied her in a quivering voice on the brink of mania.

"No, of course not, I am-"

She pushed his face even further back, smothering the words from his throat as she stood high anew, pressing down upon him. Her tone took on an imitated inflection of hearty confusion.

"No? Are you accusing me of lying? That my aunt and uncle have lied to me? That you were not about to execute them?"

It was a trap. A ship wreck. A disaster seconds away from lapping at their shores and Jon, for the life of him, could not look away as the panicked Triarch floundered for absolutions of what he and his fellows had done.

"Yes! No! I-"

She bent down again, face so close to his that their noses brushed.

"Yes? Am I lying now, as I stand before you and say you will not live to see the next sunrise? Are you really willing to test my word?"

The fool began to cry.

"Please, I beg you-"

Daeron had never stood for people who cried, not when they were harbingers of their own repercussions. To him, his old friend, if you did the action, you took the lashings for it with a straight face, or you did not follow through with it at all. This Haraella seemed to be of the same mind of her father as she pushed away from him, the action throwing Doniphos head back gratingly. She looked thoroughly disgusted, dusting her gloved hands off on her thigh as she snarled and mocked the three on the floor at her feet.

"Beg? Beg! You dare beg after all you have done to my kin?"

He was sobbing now, big, angry, heaves as he repeated one lone word. Weak, he was weak and Haraella, just like her father, could not weather people with such sentiments.

"Please, please, please-"

She re-joined her family, head tilted, watching the sobbing man as she addressed Viserys.

"Viserys, remind me of what our dear Triarchs have done."

Viserys preened, his own stature growing as his lip curled. Aegon went to move once more, but blindly, eyes still stuck on the other three Targaryens feet from him with a fucking dragon at their back, Jon tightened his hold. He needed to think, plan, scheme. They needed to get out of here. Now. For, Jon was sure, the Triarchs would, in fact, die before sunrise, and then, well, Jon wasn't sure what Haraella's, Viserys or Daenerys's plan was, but he was sure it would not be safe. Not for him or Aegon.

"The Triarchs, upon our arrival, jested of our family's demise. What was it you called it, Maegyr? Ah, the wailing of the reptilian cunts. After that, they barred us from the inner city of Volantis, the safest ward of this city, despite it being law that all Valyrians should be welcomed in through its black gate. Furthermore, Doniphos has been bribing the merchants to turn us away, even from scraps of food and shelter. Maegyr himself has the golden company in his pocket, pilfering information to them of our whereabouts to allow them the chance to collect our bounties, flooding Volantis with their kind as his personal guard, despite, or more aptly, welcoming the knowledge that they wish us dead and have been trying to complete this task for many years now. He has also been accepting money from the Baratheon treasury, to arm his own men, on the promise of, I believe, delivering our heads to the usurper. Nyessos, while less guilty of the three, is still not entirely clean. He has embargoed all ships and delivery transportation from carrying us out of this city, officially trapping us inside for his fellows to finish what they have started."

Jon winced and slowly, inchingly, he turned to face Aegon, his hand still clamped over his mouth. His lies of a happy life, of Pentos, they were in tatters now. Aegon stopped struggling, he flopped against the pillar and he looked at Jon. Looked at him with hurt and defeat, of rage and naivety. Jon couldn't bare it, he turned away, back to the Targaryens. It didn't matter. Aegon could hate him, loath him, detest his very existence, seven damn it, Jon did himself most days, but he would live.

 _He. Would. Live._

Haraella laughed darkly, succulently.

"And after all this, you expect me to show you and your fellows mercy where you showed none to my kin? Trapping them like mice, only unwilling to get your own hands dirty, so you left it to others? If there is one thing I hate more than people who attack those I care for, those I love, it is cowards."

Doniphos broke down, Nyessos huddled but Maegyr, at the slur of cowardice being thrown upon him, broke in a very different way than Doniphos. He stood up, spittle flying from his mouth as he raved, storming towards them.

"You little bitch! You think you can come into my city and threaten me? Me! Do you not know who I am!"

Then, as if witnessing a live dragon that day, seeing Daeron's child, was not enough for Jon to mentally scale, Haraella turned the tables of their world on its head again. She pulled free a little stick, carven, bobbled, and with a shout of bombarda, she took control of the very wind itself. Maegyr went flying, sailing through the air, smashing into a pillar of the stage just two short of them, so close, as he cracked the wood, dropping to the floor like a sack of dead fish.

He groaned, Jon could see him try to lift himself up, but Haraella was not finished, she shouted something once more, this one elongated and accent too thick for Jon to understand as ropes, thick and black, shot from the ground like tree roots, winding and slithering like snakes over Maegyr's struggling body. Then, they pulled tight, strangling, placing him in a position of subservience, hunched, bent hard at the waist, vertical, his neck was bared, and face was to the floor. There was a tingle in the air, a sizzle, a pop. _Magic._ Her voice rattled his bones.

"No, it is you who does not know who I am!"

Not only where dragons now alive, magic was back. Full magic, the kind from Valyria, the olden days, the time of mighty warlocks, the great others and age of heroes. The kind they used to build the wall, to smash the fingers, to skinchange and warg. The magic of the old gods. Jon's heart faltered, and he thought he was dying. If Daeron was her father… Who the fuck was her mother?

Magic, ghosts of dead friends, dragons… his own legs shook, his head swam, his tongue felt swollen. Aegon used this chance to break free and Jon, well, he couldn't do a thing. He couldn't move. No. She hadn't changed the game. She had not changed their world. She had not flipped the tables… She had opened the doors to the other side completely, she had wrecked the present that kept the truth of the past as nothing more than myth…

She had brought her own world with her and had let it eat their own comfortable, organised reality.

"I am Haraella of house Targaryen! Saviour of the wizarding world! Unifier of the deathly hallows! Killer of immortals and Master of death!"

Jon did not know those titles, but he did not doubt them for a moment as, with a flick of her wrist, the one without the stick, a trail of blue flames danced along the floor, circling around Maegyr's crumpled form, lighting up his humiliation, like his own little cell of heat and light.

"But, dear Maegyr, more importantly, I am a niece!"

She gave a quick look to Viserys, who nodded proudly, as she took his sword, unsheathing it. Then, she was prowling to Maegyr.

"A niece to a family who, through your actions and words, have been threatened and nearly put to death!"

Jon swore, by the mother did he swear, the closer she got the hotter the air around him felt as she stepped over the trail of fire and pulled in tightly to Maegyr. The shattered Triarch, with just a flicker of his renowned fire left, spat his last threat.

"I will slit your aunts throat and rape the very-"

She raised Viserys's sword and steadily placed the edge of the blade against the skin of the back of Maegyr's neck.

"It's time to show you and your kind I live up to my titles, unlike you."

Then, she grasped the gilded handle with two hands, breathed in deeply, raised the sword until it was high above her head and with no hesitation, brought the blade down hard and swiftly.

 _Thunk._

Maegyr's head rolled, falling into the flames as his body jerked violently, blood splattering across the floor, and Haraella kicked his body over, the ropes slithering back into the ground. The crowd gave its first noise, a humming gasp as parents huddled, Sellswords shrank and merchants compacted in together. Triarchs were seen as untouchable, above humanity, divine. To witness one beheaded, to see them crumpled and dirty, sobbing, pleading for their lives, it shook the foundations of what every Volantenese believed.

As if to emphasize the Triarchs humanity and frailty to the crowd around her, Haraella let the flames she conjured die, bending down to pick up the head, and with a pointed look to the other two Triarchs, she whistled, threw the head high into the air and her dragon chomped it down with a snapping bite. Doniphos's cries turned to gasps for breath, the podgy man turning dangerously blue in the face and Nyessos vomited, his own prominent future all to clear to him now. How far the mighty had fallen.

Jon ducked to the floor, Aegon too, Illyrio having long ago fallen, as the dragon stood, using its menacing stride to glide up and onto the podium, its tail wildly lashing back and forth like an angry feline, knocking over stalls and battering a hole into a wall as it prowled past. Haraella stood in front of it, the podium barely large enough to hold the beast as it readjusted itself, allowing its head to hover poignantly above its mistresses own, watchful. Waiting. It was only as Viserys and Daenerys joined either side of her that Haraella broke the tension that was overpowering them all.

"Good people of Volantis, it is not the Triarchs that I address now. I did not come here for blood shed or to bring you fear!"

And yet, that is all she had ushered in with the wings of her dragon. She glanced down to the dead body of Maegyr, something keen glittering in her eyes as she adamantly looked away, instead, turning to surveying the scared, clustered crowd in front of her.

"I am truly sorry you had to witness this. I am a woman of my word, and I will not take any threats to my family kindly!"

She waved towards the two hysterical men, still kneeling on the floor.

"As much as the Triarchs would have you believe, I, we, the Targaryen's are not your enemy!"

Rightly so, disbelief could be seen dancing across the faces of the Volantenese, highborn and lowborn alike. No doubt, it was fluttering across his own face as it had pinched and soured Illyrio's, and it had lit Aegon's eyes. The beheading of one of their leaders, anointed and elected, as corrupted as that election had been, as well as flying in upon a dragon, a beast renowned for destruction followed by the threat of two more deaths to come before sunrise, these were not the actions of friends of state, but of rebels, revolutionists and tyrants. At least, to the eyes and ears of the Volantenese, these were. However, Jon would give credit where it was due, as Haraella seemed to know this all too well as she scanned the crowd.

Still, what she did next shocked even he. She wrestled the glove of her left hand off, tucking the flap of shiny leather into the belt of her body brace, before she used the stick to drag a line across her palm, wide, from edge to edge. The line bubbled blood, dripping down her hand as the wood skimmed her skin. She took a single step forward, closer to the people and held her hand up high, so all could see the delicate pale limb.

"I am just like you! I bleed the same colour! I walk upon the same ground you do! I have as many scars as the next man! Could your previous Triarchs say the same? More importantly, would they?"

A quiet murmur broke out, a hymn and hum in the air. Jon, finally, knew what was to come next. This was no simple case of revenge. No idle threat of destruction upon a city that had turned its back on the Targaryens. This was an insurgence, a coup, a bloody coronation. Haraella, not happy with simply cutting the head of Volantis off herself, was moving to implant her own. This was not a sack, this was an inauguration. She, as forthright and obstinate as she was, lacking all subtlety, was winning the people over. Or, at least, was trying to.

"I will not pretend to be something I am not! I will not keep my boot upon your neck as you struggle to survive! For I already know what that is like! To live in fear, to go hungry, to be beaten blue and broken by those who believe they are higher than you, by those that believe they are better! To be starved, hit, abused, crammed into a cupboard, locked away and forgotten, simply because a man or woman believes you to be lesser!"

No. She wasn't trying to. She was _succeeding_. The smallfolk, the ones in rags and rat bitten, began to eye up the lords next to them, weariness, fear and uncertainty, but more importantly, ambition shining in their eyes. She was speaking to them, to their souls, to their darkest wishes and best buried dreams and they were listening like holy little ladies to stern Septas.

Jon would admit, the bite and fire in Haraella's voice, it was beguiling, it made you want to listen, to believe, and that, that alone, was a very, very, very dangerous trait to have. Especially when she was moments away from cannibalising a city, turning lowborn against highborn to implement a Targaryen rule over a city that had previously disdained them so. Then, to show unity, she left the safety of her aunt and uncles proximity, of her dragon's shadow and ventured into the crowd with her head held high, the stick her only weapon.

"Good people of Volantis… We are not the lesser beings here! They are!"

A second time, she pointed towards the Triarchs with an accusing hand, stiff and piteous, as she mingled close to the people. The lords shied back, faces cast in thunder, but the smallfolk… They began to edge forward, out of their little bundles and huddles, hooked by her words, ears and eyes open for the first time in their lives.

"The Triarchs that believe themselves to be above perdition, to be gods! The lords who sit in their castles and stately homes, growing fat and rich from the money and food you have toiled over! The magistrates and taxers, who take what little you have, right from the mouths of your starving babes, because they have saw a pretty jewel they wish to gift themselves!"

She found just that in the crowd, a magistrate with a golden, diamond encrusted necklace, as she reached him. He eyed her, flinched as she reached up and grasped his necklace, yanking hard, breaking the chain from around his neck, a few links plummeting to the ground with a resounding clink. She snarled at him and he skidded back, petrified, but it was pointless. Her aim was not to reach him, but the people he had built his wealth upon. The necklace was soon gifted to a crone, as Haraella handed the wrinkled, haggard woman with distended joints the necklace. The murmur picked up to a muted chant, almost like a prayer as she carried her path deeper into the people.

"Here, now, it is not to them I speak but to you! To the blood that swells Volantis, to the little people who make this city grand! To the fishers, the tailors, the farmers, the lowly market merchants! To the ones who bleed and ache while others bloat from your hard work!"

The crowd was dividing right before Jon's eyes, as it once did when the Targaryen's had been singled out by Maegyr's ire. The smallfolk began to step into the light, the lords slinking back, trying fruitlessly to hide in the shadows. It would do no good, as within every city, the smallfolk were a force, a magnitude often over looked. A strength and power Haraella was tapping into like a miner with a vein of gold, her words the pickaxe, breaking them from their granite prison. They outnumbered the lords at least fifteen to one, and condensed in this market square, Jon was sure these lords had never felt so isolated before.

"I will not lie! These Triarchs will die tonight! I will execute them myself for what they have done to my family! But, I will not interfere with what is to come next! If you wish, choose your next leaders! Let them bribe themselves back into office, continue on with the dreary, downtrodden lives you already have, continue to starve and rot! Buy into what your fat lords have told you to believe, that you are lesser and deserve no better, and I will do nothing! Me and my kin will leave this place and you will face no repercussions!"

This, by the way Viserys stepped forward, frown pulling at the kernel of his brow, was off script. Haraella, however, would not be deterred as she held her hand up, still bleeding, staving her uncle off. When she spoke next, she was no longer looking at the crowd, but at her uncle, Viserys, as if she too, was ordering him. No… Not ordering, not quite. Asking, yes, asking him to follow her too. To trust her.

"I swear to you, should you wish it so, I and my family will climb upon my dragon and we will take flight and you will never have to witness us again."

Viserys fell back, but his frown did not dissipate. Jon, however, was more focused on what this meant. The dragon was obviously Haraella's, but, by this action, Jon would guess she was the mind behind this plan too, and therefore, the pragmatic leader of their little trio. Strange, considering Viserys was oldest, the male and to their knowledge, the heir to the Iron throne.

"However…"

Jon had no more time to ponder the complexities that made up the three Targaryens as Haraella began to confront the crowd around her again. It was here, standing amongst the people she was trying to rally, was rallying, that she hit the vein of gold free.

"Vote now, elect me, Viserys and Daenerys into office, declare us Triarchs this very night, and I can break this cycle these bastards have put you in!"

From besides him, he could hear Aegon take in a rather jagged breath, but luckily, the boy was smart enough not to force himself into this moment. If Haraella didn't win this little game she was playing, the three Targaryens would be forced to leave, she had given her word so, and thus, if Aegon showed his own face, declared his own blood and it was believed, he would be ran out too. If she won and the people rallied around her and her aunt and uncle, and yet again, Aegon stated his heritage, unquestionably, at least one of the three would believe Aegon to be trying to seize what they had just rightfully earned, like a vulture. The question Aegon was facing was if the risk of telling who he really was, was worth the likelihood of facing their anger. Their anger that could be followed through with dragon's breath. Family, or survival.

"I cannot offer you an army for protection like the tigers. No more than I can offer you plentiful trade deals like those that the elephants can give you. For I am no warlord, nor am I a merchant queen. I can offer you but one thing…"

Yet again, she held up her bloody palm for all to see.

"Power!"

And then she clenched it and the fist burst into flame, her blood smoking and bubbling, but her skin still brilliant in its moonlike paleness. Jon felt like crying, or laughing, he couldn't settle. She was good. Too good. This, the people, this city, it was her cyvasse board. The people her pieces, her dragon, Daenerys and Viserys her king, and she, the one from upon above, playing them all, moving them where she wished. Whoever taught her to play the great game taught her well. Too well. She said the right things at the right moment. She acted swiftly, but with forethought. She let just enough emotion onto her face for the people to feel a connection, and yet not enough for them or he to know what she was thinking or planning. She was wise beyond her years, but her youth gave her the energy and enthusiasm to make her seductive to those who watched.

"Power over your own life. Power over the life of your children and your children's children. Power to be who you want, where you want, how you want. Power to lift the chains of oppression these lords and would be gods have encased you in. I offer you liberation!"

Perhaps, her words too honest to be thought otherwise, she did not realize she was playing the great game. Not fully. But she was. She was playing it beautifully and all the pieces were falling to her dainty feet with each passing word that slipped through her rosy lips. This… She… Haraella Targaryen was the king they had all wished Aerys had been, the king Rhaegar could have been, the king Aegon had been groomed to be, but had not fully grown into its shoes yet.

"I will not offer you any army for protection, because unlike the tigers who keep you bound to them through fear of war and violence while leaving you defenceless, I will teach you to protect yourselves!"

And Jon Connington, like he had done with Viserys and Daenerys, had turned his back on her, on them and now, he knew not how to mend that bridge, not for Aegon's sake. Additionally, if he could, should he? If they took Volantis, the news would not take long to reach Robert Baratheon. Robert would not stand for such a mighty city to fall to a Targaryen, a Targaryen with a dragon, not so close to Westeros and all his ire, all his might, all his fury would come crashing around them. Aegon, if here, with his family, would feel that brute force batter him too. No. He couldn't risk Aegon.

"I cannot offer you trade deals, but I can assure you, instead of filling my own pockets and coffers with your hard-earned coin, I will see to it personally that your trade is your own, and not an extension to my own riches, leaving you to starve in the gutters!"

Her flaming hand extinguished as she made her way back to her aunt and uncle.

"Vote now, vote for us, and I swear I will see you rise to be the people they have never thought you could be!"

For a long moment, Viserys leant over, whispering something in her ear before she nodded at him and said something too low to hear to Daenerys, who too, nodded.

"To the golden company, who I know are amongst us now, lay down your swords! Deny the Baratheon's bounty, swear to never aim a blow at me and my kin again, and I will let you live. In fact, swear fealty to house Targaryen, right now, and you will find honour and steady wages, instead of pitiless pennies for pitiless murders!"

A lump formed in Jon's dry throat. They already knew the Baratheon would be coming for them. _They were planning for it._ And it was here, they were making there stand. Here, not only where they seizing a city, an act Jon had put down to them trying to form a stronghold to feel safe in, they were, in fact, creating their own bloody army. Volantis had the ships and resources to create a hardy armada, strong from their countless docks and shipping ports. With the golden company swelling their standing army ranks should they take the deal, they would have a good-sized infantry. Given, not the best, but enough to gain more from outer laying cities if they began to spread Volantis's boarders.

With the river Rhoyne at their disposal, most trade from Norvos, Qohor, the golden fields, Essaria and Loroth, which used that very river to send their trade to Westeros, using Volantis's docks at the very base as harbour and gate, could be strangled, easily cutting off money to the Baratheon treasury and filling their own. Furthermore, with the threat of a dragon so close to home, Pentos, Myr and Braavos would be fools not to cut their own trade lines with the Baratheon if the Targaryens demanded it.

The placement of Volantis, far enough from Westeros to see any attack coming, left them also close enough to send a force into Dorne without having to cross any enemy waters when the time was right. Dorne, no doubt, with their hatred of the Baratheon throne even known here, would open their gates willingly to a Targaryen and then… Then they had a fucking foot-hold into Westeros and it would only be a case of winning the lords over and sweeping upwards.

In hindsight, they had taken the perfect city to create a stepping stone to launch an attack on Westeros, and more importantly, the Baratheon. In the end, if they won Volantis this night, and kept it, it was not a case of if, which it formally had been, but when they would sail for Westeros. The smile on Viserys's face right then, gleaming and slick, let Jon know he knew just that. Daenerys, who had been mute up until this point, made her own demands.

"Those who do not give such oaths within three days should you vote us in, will be stripped bare off all weaponry, money, holdings and estates within Volantis. The wealth will be redistributed to those who need it most and…"

But, again, the finale went to Haraella, who, with a glance from Daenerys, took the challenge willingly enough.

"If you are not out of Volantis within three days, I will personally execute every single one of you! I will hunt you down like you have my aunt and uncle! I will see you burn!"

It wasn't a threat. It was a promise and what followed from Haraella kept to the same heavy oath.

"I cannot say this will be an easy path! I cannot promise change overnight! I cannot give my word that all will be better and right in the world come sunrise… But I do swear I will try. I will try until my hands bleed and my back breaks! Good people, vote now, for I have but one thing to say to you lords who turned their back on my family when they sought sanctuary…"

And here it was. The test. Had they won, or would they flee?

"Arrest them!"

It was a smart move on Haraella's part, for she could see if she had won this city or not with a single edict. If they moved, followed this one order, she, Daenerys and Viserys had a chance at reigning, if not, they would need to leave, and fast, before the Lords of Volantis's ire would be turned to them for the rebellion against them they had nearly stoked into being.

It was silent, it was heavy, it was hot and tension felt so meaty that it was if they, the city itself, had been struck by greyscale and all had turned to decayed stone. Then the smallfolk, one or two, latched onto the lords near them, the Sellswords drew their weapons and the highborns began to squeak and squawk like baby falcons. There was a moment of chaos, undisputable, as it could have turned either way. Yet, it was the rich, silken lords doused in gold which were hurdled into the middle of the market square by scruffy Sellswords and common folk alike.

 _Volantis had been won._

Nonetheless, here came Jon's worst problem yet. Aegon had been with Jon… And they had been with Illyrio, in his fine gold embroidered tunic and velvet breeches and horsehide boots. When the host of smallfolk and Sellswords near them joined in, it was the three of them that took their brunt. Soon, they too were being shoved into the middle, forced to their knees by the swords at their neck, Jon's own sword having been taken off him by the swarm when they had been swept up and pushed into the middle. He had punched, he had kicked, he had fought back, but the numbers proved too many. Standing before their little gaggle of frenzied lords were the three dragons, quietly conversing with each other as they regarded the men brought before them.

Jon hadn't felt this defeated since the Battle of the Bells. For the final time, he was proven wrong. He glanced to his side, locked eyes with Aegon and then, and only then, did he feel true defeat. Bruising, aching defeat as Aegon whispered to him.

"You knew… You lied to me…"

Jon's throat was sore as he swallowed, blinking rapidly. What could he say? His lies would work no longer and the truth burnt him as much as the dragon would. Yes, he had bought into his own lies too much, and now with them shattered around him, he had no thought of what he could do to fix it. He bent his head down, kept his gaze steady, and gave the only thing he had left. The truth.

"You are the heir. You are what needs to be kept safe."

But that was Jon's truth, not Aegon's, not his Griff's. Griff could only see the lies, could only see what it had wrought, his families near executions.

"They are my family too!"

Jon went to speak, but Aegon had not finished, his own temper only rising with the more he thought and spoke on the matter.

"Furthermore, heir or not, it is Haraella who has a dragon, who has just led a three-man revolt upon Volantis… And won! She who now commands Volantis, it's men, has its previous lords in chains, likely willing to say and pay however much they wish to be set free. She now has the ships and men for a good-sized army! Perhaps if all you wanted is an heir to place upon the Iron throne, you should have kept her _safe_ instead. Perhaps it should have been me on the streets, with you filling her head of how I'm safe and fed!"

The only thing stopping his rising voice from being heard was the cries and begs of the lords around them, and that Jon was thankful for. Only the seven knew what the Targaryens in front of them would do if they ever knew just who was amongst them. He. Couldn't. Risk. Aegon. Not this way. So, Jon fell back on what he knew best. Total denial.

"It is not like that, and you know that lad! The Baratheon needed a target to aim his ire at, otherwise it would have been aimed at you and-"

Wrong words at the wrong time, Aegon flustered, his skin flushing pink.

"So my aunt and uncle were nothing but a shield for you to use to guard me with?"

Jon violently shook his head. His world was falling apart around him. His quest slipping from his fingers. His reason for life and planning and scheming blowing away on the wind of Haraella's making. What was she even doing here? What were Daenerys and Viserys planning? Why now? It couldn't end here. Not for him. Not until Aegon was on the Iron throne would he let himself be jailed or killed.

"I loved your father! I loved him true and deep! It is for him that I have given my own name to the grave and protected his son all these years."

Aegon went in for the killing blow.

"And what do you think he would say if he saw how you have discarded his own siblings, his other niece?"

He felt like he was made of glass, twisted, soft, delicate, and Aegon had just dropped him onto the stone floor of the red keep. What would Rhaegar think of him? Disgust, remorse, guilt, all of it, every drop poisoned his blood and slushed his bones at the thought.

"I did not know Haraella existed… I didn't believe Daenerys and Viserys to be in such straits…"

Aegon turned away, decisively wandering his gaze up and over to the three, his own aunt and uncle, his cousin's muted conversation. His voice was blank as he spoke. Dead leaves and dry sands.

"Yes, well, I am sure they will love to hear that before they feed us both to Haraella's dragon. _I didn't know._ What a fine excuse."

Before Jon could speak anymore, Viserys stepped forward and bellowed to the crowd.

"Men, take those arrested down to the Canal crypt cells. Whoever has the keys, open the gates, including the black gate. As we call them forth over the following week, bring them to the Triarchs sept in the inner city where they will be held to trial."

Daenerys joined his side, her voice softer, lighter than her brothers.

"Make sure they are properly housed and fed during this time. We do not know of their full guilt quite yet…"

However, Haraella was not quite finished with her game as she chuckled, sidling up to her aunt and uncle. As if the gods themselves wanted him to know of the dire circumstances he and Aegon were in, Haraella's bright, wildfire eyes caught his in the mass of bodies, her smile taunting.

"But not too fed. Vaenora prefers her meat _lean._ "

Then hands were upon them and their feet skidded to find ground. They were marched past the new Triarchs, and Aegon chose then to answer his own question. Family or survival… He chose family. As they neared the three on the way to the Canal crypt cells, Aegon began to struggle, drawing the Targaryens gaze as he shouted.

"I must not tell lies!"

Confusion struck Jon, as it did Viserys and Daenerys, but Haraella? She stalled, locking into place, her head slowly swivelling to look at Aegon dead on, voice dripping with concealed gloom.

"What did you just say?"

Aegon fumbled, but the guards held him in place, barring Jon from going any further as he was in front.

"I must not tell lies… Your right hand!"

Her gaze flickered down to her right hand Aegon pointedly stared at, but all Jon could see was a black glove, her left was the one that was free from the leather confines. Whatever it was, somehow, someway, It unsettled the girl who had no trouble in beheading a man as the limb clenched into a ball.

"Get this fucker out of my sight!"

They began to drag them away again, but Aegon would not be deterred as he flailed, hair coming undone. Jon began to shout to him, to plead for him to stop, but the young man, looking right at Haraella, jumped to another phrase they had no hope in understanding.

"Such a beautiful place, to be with friends!"

Had the men dragging them away struck him on his head? Had the heat become too much? What was the bloody lad talking about? However, Haraella snapped, and with her stick in hand, she marched towards them with murder in her eyes. Jon's own struggling became hectic, frantic, as he tried to get to Aegon, to shush him, to do anything to get him away from the girl who looked ready to drink blood. Then, even in a headlock, Aegon managed to bark out one last sentence.

"It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities!"

Aegon managed to choke out the last word before she got to him, and then, despite the fire raging in her eyes, she shoved the stick back into its sheath on her thigh, reaching out to wind a hand in Aegon's jerkin, the men letting him go as she pulled him harshly, throwing him to the floor towards a wide-eyed Daenerys and Viserys.

"He comes with us!"

Aegon scrambled to stand, but she was faster, grabbing him by the scruff of his tunic, heaving him up and forwards. Looking over her shoulder, she viciously snarled back at the men waiting.

"Get them to their cells!"

Then, as if nothing had happened, movement was back and now it was Jon's turn to scramble as he was dragged away from Aegon. He shouted, he screamed, he bit and clawed and thought of Rhaegar, but the hands holding him were too many, and his own shouts were drowned out by the lords cries around him. Just as he was being shoved down into the narrow street that would lead to the canals, Aegon caught his eye and mouthed three words to him.

 _I'll free you._

Then, he was being herded away like cattle into the dank, dark canals, unsure whether he would ever see the light of day again.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER: AEGON'S P.O.V**

* * *

 **NOTES ON THIS CHAPTER:**

1\. This chapter... ThIs ChApTeR! I can't fully put into words how frustrated this chapter has made me XD. I've wrote this bloody chapter out seven times, yes, seven, from all different P.O.V's, and I'm still not completely happy with it. However, this one, Jon Connington's version is my favourite out of the lot (And that's saying something), and so wearily, I present this to you wonderful readers hoping you can take it easy on me this chapter. Originally, I wanted it to be Aegon's, but that one just turned out terrible, and no matter what I did, it only got worse. I'm back into my groove next one, it's just this one has given me a curve ball that I haven't quite been able to straighten out, despite all my efforts to. But, if I didn't post this one, I would have likely scrapped this whole thing and I just wanted these scenes to be over and done with lmao. So, please, have a little pity for me hahaa. On the plus side, its a 10,000 word chapter, so I hope that makes up for some if it XD.

2\. As game of thrones and, namely, Theon Greyjoy has taught us, winning a place does not, and is not, the same as keeping it. Volantis may be won, but it is far from secure yet. This, my friends, is going to be a bumpy ride.

3\. I know Daenerys and Viserys didn't take much of a role in this chapter, but that was a purposeful choice on my part. If anyone picked it up, Jon thought, if at all feasible, Viserys and Haraella were speaking through their minds... Well, they were. (it will be brought up in later chapters) It was how Haraella knew of the Elephants and Tigers and other things without Viserys having to speak outright and alert people around them that Haraella didn't actually know a single fucking thing about where she was, who these people were and what was going on. I liked having it that way, as Viserys, even without being seen as doing such at the moment, is sort of mentoring Haraella. I hope that was read in the chapter. As for Daenerys, in this sort of situation, with the character she currently is, I see Viserys and Haraella taking the lead on this, although, I did have a few glimpses of future Daenerys spotted through, just to show she is in there, waiting to be let unleashed.

4\. Just a quick heads up, Willas Tyrell, Garlen Tyrell, Lady Leonette Fossoway, Oberyn... No, scrap that, all the Martells and Tyrion Lannister play big, big roles in this story. The reason I bring this is up is a few of these characters are solely from the books, and even those shown in the T.V show, Tyrion and Oberyn, will be leaning towards more of their book counterparts than the shows version. I will of course expand on them in this fic and gloss over what the books do, but I just wanted to put that out there. I hope none of you mind!

5\. George R. R. Martin has confirmed one of his POV characters in a Dance with Dragons is gay, and it is heavily implied that this character is Jon Connington, who was in love with Rhaegar and continually called him his silver prince. Evidently, I have chosen this path for my own story as I believe it adds another layer of complexity of why Jon Connington so ardently and protectively looks after young Griff/Aegon.

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wow, I am blown away by the response this fic has gotten (can't you see that I'm blushing?). I really do want to **_thank you_ **all personally, but I can't. So, big cyber hugs for you all! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! If you have a spare moment, leave me your thoughts! I love hearing from you guys!

Until next time, stay beautiful! _~AlwaysEatTheRude21_


	6. Hollowed Out

**CHAPTER MIX TAPE:**

 _ **Skillet: The Resistance.**_

 _ **Bebe Rexha: Cry Wolf.**_

 _ **Barns Courtney: Glitter and Gold.**_

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 **CHAPTER VI: HOLLOWED OUT.**

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 **AEGON'S P.O.V**

Aegon Targaryen was losing his mind. Gone. Chipped away, bit by bit with each passing day he was stuck in this seven forsaken room, with anxiety as his only company. It had been one and twenty days since he had been ushered into the room in the grand hall of Volantis's inner palace, words bubbling on his tongue, spewing forth. Only, Haraella, who had been silent since dragging him from the market square, had turned a blind eye to his ramblings, ordered a few guards to push him inside, and then had walked away as if he had said or done nothing. As if he, Aegon, heir to the seven kingdoms, was nothing but a mad beggar she had wrangled in from the streets. She, nor Aegon's aunt and uncle, had returned for him.

Do not mistake his grievances. He was not treated poorly. The chambers he was given were fine, as all were in the grand hall palace of Volantis. Silk and gold decorated the white, marbled room. He had his own balcony. Good wine and plentiful food was brought to him regularly… And yet, as gilded as it was, this room was still a cage he had been dumped and forgotten in. The guards posted outside his door reminded him of that fact.

The first few days since he had been sequestered to these chambers, Aegon had been convinced it had only been a matter of time before the new Triarchs called for him. Haraella was busy. She had just conquered a city. She had her rule… The Targaryen rule to solidify. Trials for the old masters and Lords to hold. However, those beliefs had passed quickly with each rise of the moon. And then, just as he was convinced his relatives had forgotten about him, wilfully or not, three guards had entered his chamber on the one and twentieth rise of the sun, early in the morn, escorting him out of the room in a silent rush, with only _they will meet with you now_ as his explanation.

Silently, like armoured and gold-plated ghosts, they had marched him through the halls of the grand palace until they reached the ground floor, towards the back, where men in robes, guards, and people in all dress were squirrelling in and out of rooms like mice, busy, stuck in their endless tasks. The palace was in a frenzy, a constant state of movement, none idle. It was in one of the larger back rooms, with an open wall that led to the water gardens, that he had been led to, where he first saw his relatives since he had mindlessly shouted at Haraella in that market square.

Despite the spicy, open-air wafting in from the veranda, the smell of parchment and ink was nose stingingly strong. No doubt, Aegon thought, that it was due to the large table set up in the middle of the marbled room, loaded with tittering piles of leather bound books, pages open, men in grey cloaks scribbling away in mass, transcribing from scrolls servant boys were bringing to them in a flurry of movement, like tidal waves of paper, coming and going.

His aunt, Daenerys, stood near the open veranda, conversing with a woman dressed all in crimson. A red priest. Daenerys looked the epitome of regality, with the breeze fluttering passed her. Her silver hair braided away from her face, pinned and curled in shiny waves. Her dress was thin, finely stitched blue silk, with a barricade of golden lattice work that clung to her ribs and hips.

Viserys too, looked regal, standing at the table, flicking through a book with an imperious eye. His clothes were as fine as his sisters, black crushed velvet and red silk tunic and breeches, leather boots shining in the harsh sun seeping in through the open veranda. His sword glinted at his hip, his hair, a shade more silver than his sisters, looked like molten metal as it curled around his shoulders, half pinned back by a dragon clasp.

Haraella was close to Viserys's side, a few inches shorter than her uncle, as their heads bowed and pressed in close, attention flittering between each other and the book they were inspecting. Where Aegon's aunt had taken sea blue and gold as her colours, Viserys parading the black and red of their house, Haraella had gone for a plainer attire, almost looking like a pauper compared to her aunt and uncle. Her tunic was tight, showing the flex of taunt muscle as she flipped a page, made from a light velour, a soft gem green that held no embellishments what-so-ever. Her breeches were leather, crudely stitched at the side and bleached to a pallid beige that could have been mistaken for white. Her feet were bare, two little green silk slippers discarded underneath the table, a few steps away from her pale feet.

Unlike their aunt and uncle, who had oiled and braided their hair, hers was left loose, curls kinky and large from the heat, almost making her seem double her actual size. Daenerys had gone for decadence, Viserys for visual intimidation and Haraella, well, she looked like she had wriggled into whatever she could find comfortable.

"My Triarchs, we brought the man you requested."

Aegon almost swallowed his tongue when the three gazes snapped towards him, but he held his head up high, perhaps a little too high. Daenerys's frown of confusion, he could handle. Viserys's scan of his person, ending with a crinkled nose as if he had smelled something foul, Aegon could stomach too. However, the glint that took up home in Haraella's wildfire eyes, the twitch of a smirk, reminded Aegon of the cat aboard the ship he and Jon Connington worked upon, the look it would get on its feline features right before it pounced and devoured the mouse or rat it had tracked from the decks below, left him entirely unsettled.

"Ah, good! Thank you, you may leave now."

The guards around him bowed and slinked off, leaving him in the dragon's den as Haraella seized the book she had been raking over, gliding towards him with long strides. He would admit, when it was lifted towards him, he flinched, expecting a blow, but instead was pressed into taking the book. With it in his hands, he could feel that the leather was stiff, shiny, new. He glanced down and was greeted with columns of names, numbers and calculations clustered into the bottom corners of the pages.

When he looked back up, for the first time gazing at Haraella's face, he saw the smudge of ink on her chin, the quill balancing precariously behind her ear, the blush of purple lingering underneath her slanted eyes, but most importantly, he saw that coquettish, predatorial smile that let a fang or two peep out from her flushed lips.

"These are my ledgers for my new Tax reformation. People are going to be recorded, names taken, addresses noted and numbers within their families quoted. Work, health and employment history will also be considered and tacked on later, when we have the sound information. This way, we know exactly who lives in Volantis, what their work is, who is visiting, and exactly who is moving in and out of our city. Previously, there was no poll or list that quotes Volantenese, highborn and lowborn alike, and these murky waters make me unsettled. After all, how am I meant to rule a city, if I do not even know who its subjects are?"

Aegon blinked, lips thinning, nostrils flaring from the shaky breath he took. He had expected many things once he was called. Demands to know who he was. Interrogation. The idle fantasy here and there of a warm welcome. Haraella questioning him on how he knew those things to say to her back in the market square to gain her attention. However, not once had he thought he would be subjected to the talk of tax, of all things. He, unseated and a bit dazed, opened his mouth to question what exactly was going on, but Haraella rolled over him with a cutting look and a glance backwards to the stacks of books behind her.

"As for the tax itself, the new system I will put into place will be on a rates-based code, meaning no longer will the highborns get off freely and the smallfolk will not pay the lords salary. Everyone above sixteen and in lawful employment will pay a percentage accordingly to their gross income. Businesses, houses and trades will also begin to get taxed, in conjunction with their profit, size and expenditure. Inflation may be a problem, especially considering the amount of coin I am planning to pump into Volantis's economy to jump start it from the ground, but my advisors and mathematicians here, assure me that the increase of wages and salary due to my other… Projects, will mirror this inflation beautifully."

There was a joke being played on him, Aegon was sure. Viserys was smiling, as sharply as Haraella, and Daenerys, who had looked so placid and quiet upon his arrival, too held a taunting curl to her lips. The problem was, Aegon could not understand the joke, let alone find the punchline. Once again, he was left voiceless as Haraella harshly clapped him on the back, jolting him forward from the force, edging up to his side, her voice spirited and fluid, rushing like a tepid river, soft but hiding the strong currents underneath. He felt like he was moments away from being tugged under those currents and drowned.

"With the extra coin in Volantis's coffers, I'm establishing a universal health system. Trained healers will be placed in institutes within the city to treat poor and rich alike and will be paid from the flow of tax each year. No longer will maesters be needed, and no longer will people have to pay for medical care. This, of course, will open more employment opportunities for the people, once again, adding to the economy and tax collection. Of course, this leads to the problem of illiteracy and lack of education that is so predominant in the smallfolk here but, well, follow me."

It may have sounded like a question, beguiling and playful, to any other ears but his own, but Aegon knew it wasn't. She snatched the book off him, handed it to a grey robed man and with a rather forceful push, herded him towards the door he had just been dumped between. Viserys and Daenerys followed behind them as Haraella practically dragged him out into the hallway, taking a few sharp turns before they came upon another room.

This room was larger than the previous one and the smell of ink and parchment was so poignant, it almost killed the rest of his senses. Men with tools and long sheets of parchment were circling a… Contraption of some kind, smiling and talking amongst themselves as they fiddled with a wire here and there. The thing was large, intricate, wooden, with a heavy press and a continual slide of parchment being rolled in between its thick lips. To its side, lining the tables that circled the room, where little wooden cubes, letters etched and carved upon their faces.

"This is a printing press. With this device, and more once they are built, books will be easier and faster to make, negating their hefty price. Meaning books, and therefore knowledge, will be easier to attain for the people of Volantis. Knowledge, after all, is power."

Tax… Health care… Printing press? Aegon didn't understand why she was showing him all this. Why she wasn't questioning who he was, what he was doing, even what he wanted. Surely, in her place, it would have been what he would have done. Yet, from the little he had dreamt of her, having thought that was all they were, dreams, before seeing her in the market place, he understood enough of her to know she could be a dramatic little thing when she wanted to be… Vindictive too. In the market place, he had likely unsettled her, confused her, to someone like Haraella, that was an open invitation for complete warfare.

"More so, I will be creating schools. Free, funded by the tax. These schools will teach lowborn and highborn alike. Maths, languages, geography, history, art and music being only some of the subjects taught. This, within a generation or two, will lead to an educated, cultured and efficient populace who will only prosper with each passing year. More employment opportunities will open to the smallfolk due to their educational backgrounds and more sectors of work will be established."

He glanced towards her, she levelled him back and he was sure, as sure as he was breathing, that he could feel claws wrap around his neck.

"With this blossoming in the employment sector, the recently freed slaves of Volantis will prosper. They will have options to take. If there were no employment opportunities open to them, being they are the majority in favour of Targaryen leadership, they would likely feel as trapped as they were before, and rebellion would only be a matter of time. I stood in the market square and promised change. Change is what I _will_ deliver. To those previously in chains and those sitting on thrones. I have taken the time to speak to each sector, Lords, slaves, traders, merchants, septa's, maesters, and have ordered them to elect three official representatives from amongst their ranks. Of course, bribery, nepotism and money laundering are being closely watched for. Those elected should only be in office for the merit of their person, the wit of their brain. I won't stand for anything less."

While she was speaking, she was leading him away again, his aunt and uncle pulling in tightly at his back assuring he couldn't try and back away, up and around a spiralling tower that was situated at the bottom of the hallway. Haraella bounded up the steep steps as if she was a woodland nymph, unexhausted, energetic, frantic almost. When they reached the very top of the tower, he understood why.

The view was glorious, breath-taking even. The sides were open, no walls or bars to cage you in, only little pillars to hold the arching domed roof above them up. This high up, you could see the sweeping landscape of Volantis, the docks, the sea, the azure gleam of the river Rhoyne splitting the city in two. The smell of exotic spice, heat and tangy flowers made the blistering breeze pleasant.

"Together, they will form a union. A union, in time, I hope, that will completely make the Triarch seat redundant. I will teach them to have their own voice, a voice that will speak for and with their people."

Haraella detached herself from his side, voice carried on the soft wind. It was only as she stepped towards the ledge, leaning against a pillar, staring out at the city before them, barefoot and all, that he realised she didn't look bedraggled. She didn't look like a pauper. She looked _free._ Untameable. A force of nature birthed in flesh and blood.

"You're teaching them to self-govern…"

It took him a while to realize he had been the one to speak, so lost in his thoughts and confusion was he. When she answered, she didn't bother to look back at him, transfixed upon the cityscape before her, and he would admit, the action stung a little.

"Power over the people, any people, their choices, their paths, should be in their own hands. Not mine. Not the Triarchs. Not the Targaryen's. I have a saying where I come from…"

And then she did look at him, peeking over her shoulder to him, eye to eye, face half cast in shadow and he half wished she hadn't. Something dark lurked in her eyes, pain, anger, fire. It reminded him of an injured lion from a travelling circus he had seen once, on it's last legs, but ready to claw and bite all the same. Still, her voice, that dead, bottomless tone, was far more disconcerting and disturbing than that look could ever be.

"Absolute power corrupts absolutely. I find it to be a true saying. The worst beasts, men, are those without people to answer to. I refuse to become what I have fought so hard against, I refuse to become Albus or Tom-"

The words choked in her throat like a lodged chicken bone, and she viciously snarled before she bravely shook the whole thing off and that coltish look she wore so well was back. Only, he knew what it was now. Fake. Painted ashes. Like most dreams, his dreams of her had been hazy, muddled, confusing. Some were flashes, a glimpse of blinding green, screaming and smoke, a snake like man, a huge, monstrous spider. Others were long, drawling, all summer days and poppy fields. Those were the hardest to remember, to hold onto and keep within his grasp.

They weren't as vivid as the flashes, but somehow, someway, they felt deeper. Truer. Richer. He didn't know why he dreamt of her, didn't know what it all meant, but facing her, seeing her, he knew it meant _something._ It had to. He could feel it, thrumming through him. _He could feel her._ Her anger she hid, the bite of something deep within her, her own confusion she masked so well. He could feel it all. Right there, just underneath his skin. But still, just like those dreams, ever so confusing. Haraella kicked away from the pillar and strolled towards him, face set in stone and shoulders stiff. But it didn't work on him, he could _feel_ her, and he knew, he unsettled her as much as she did him.

"The time for autocracy is dead."

It almost seemed to be a threat, so determinedly did she say it. For the first time, Viserys stepped out from behind him, addressing him with a smooth voice, hand resting on the guilt of his sword. With Daenerys at his back, Viserys at his side, Haraella at the front, Aegon felt boxed in, trapped, cornered. It did not help his reaction when Viserys and Haraella began to prowl around him, as if they could smell blood in the water. His heart thundered.

"Naturally, this will take time and we do not wish for jobs such as blacksmithing, agriculture and metal work to be overshadowed. For this, we will be setting up apprenticeships and guilds, where hands on learning will be more valuable than book learning, though all will have to be literate on taking on an apprenticeship. if completed, it will lead to its own certificate and title. The masters of these crafts will be enticed to take on apprentices by the coin offered for each apprentice taken, and the teaching will be heavily watched to make sure the pupils and, evidently us, are getting our coins worth."

Fed up with feeling confused, trapped, mute, his emotions bleeding into something external, Haraella, Aegon rose to meet the challenge. Squaring his own shoulders, amethyst eyes flashing hotly. He was Aegon Targaryen. He held the blood of old Valyria, just as much as the three around him, and he would not be cowed or cornered.

"I don't understand. Why are you telling me this?"

His voice, against what he wanted, turned huskily impetuous rather than stern. Even to his own hears, he sounded like a child demanding to know why he must go to bed at this hour. What was wrong with him? Why did his words flee him? Why was nothing coming out the way he wished it to? Jon, if he could see Aegon right then, would be shaking his head in disappointment. Haraella dipped a hand into the fold of her tunic, pulling out a slip of parchment, which she flicked towards him. He caught it but did not remove his gaze from the two slinking around him. He felt like if he looked away, if but for a moment, one would leap.

"These here are my new ship and trade licences. Viserys thought of these himself. The docks, currently, were open to any and whoever should sail into port and set anchor. This, evidently, is a security risk and never mind the coin Volantis is losing due to outside tradesmen taking Volantis's home-grown businesses. From here on out, only businesses holding one of these licences can trade on Volantis soil, with Volantenese people. Only ships holding these can dock into our ports and export and import into our city. Just last year, Daenerys was telling me, a ship from an unknown location rolled in carrying soiled meats, which they sold on. A plague hit Volantis, and many died. Under my new system, devastations such as these will be missed."

The click of Viserys's boots, the soft pad of Haraella's bare feet, they sounded like drums.

"I am also putting stricter rules upon the trading and selling of food into place. No more sawdust bread, no soiled meats, no watered-down wine. The people will get what they pay for, nothing less will do."

She danced towards him, there was no other way to describe her movement, as she impishly placed a hand upon his shoulder, fingers digging into his jerkin jarringly, contrary to her loose limbs and amicable face. She leaned in close to his ear, breath fluttering his blue locks, lips hot, grazing the shell. This close, he could smell her. She smelled of ripe peaches, freshly cut grass and campfire smoke, with something heady underneath that made his head swim.

"See these buildings I am clearing out? They are going to be my new healing wards and schools. That building over there…"

She pointed out towards the city laid before them, off towards a spiky, little blip of towers and Aegon could only breathe in that damned fucking scent.

"That is going to be our first guild. Agriculture. Volantis, unlike many in Essos, has the fertile ground of the River Rhoyne seeping through it. Tapped into and spread, growing crops and trading our own goods will boost our economy and cut out money spent in importing food. Something the previous Triarchs have never tried to establish before."

Aegon blinked away the haze, took to breathing through his mouth and this time, when he spoke, his voice was stern, was determined and was unarguable.

"Why are you telling me all this?"

She pulled away, her hand flopping to her side. He was thankful. He was disappointed. He was everything and nothing and all in between. He felt stretched. Thin. Translucent. She simply looked disappointed.

"Do you not see what I am trying to build?"

No. He saw nothing. Understood nothing. Not since being dragged out of his chambers that acted as his prison. Like a child, he wanted Jon. He wanted his ship. He wanted Braavos and the sea and safety. Nothing made sense here. She didn't make sense. _He_ didn't make sense. Was he dreaming again? He hoped so. And yet, he also wished he wasn't.

"A city? A legacy? A place that will over shadow the rest of Essos in its innovation and advancement?"

Was she simply after glory? There was a spark of something in his chest, like lightning, foreign, strikingly blinding. Indignation. It was her again. He was sure, and whatever he had said had affronted her. Severely.

"I am building a _home_. A safe, prosperous place for people like me, the smallfolk of the world, can grow in and become strong. I am building a free-hold. Healthcare, education and proper spread of wealth is the only way to succeed."

Aegon shook his head.

"I still do not see-"

She resolutely cut him off with a hearty scoff.

"I can see you don't. Let me cut it short for you. Look how much effort I am putting into Volantis. Look at what I'm trying to build, a _home._ Look at how far I am willing to push, even going as far as taxing the high Lords and the other cities if they wish to import our goods. Freeing all slaves even if the masters will come for us. And then…"

She stepped forward again, head tilting daringly, goading him to dispute her, to argue. Up this close, he could see yellow flames in the wildfire fields of her eyes.

"Look me in the eye and tell me what I wouldn't do to make sure my plans succeed. What I wouldn't do to _someone_ who threatened that dream of mine."

And there it was, the answer, the solution to Aegon's question of why she, they, were telling him all this, showing him all they were doing when they had seemed all too happy to leave him in that room to rot. Haraella was making a point. They all were. He was the threat here. He was the interloper, the stranger, the unknown to their plans. They hadn't locked him away to forget about him, they had simply given Haraella enough time to show him they weren't ones to mess with.

"There's nothing you wouldn't do."

And there really wasn't. From what she had showed, from what Aegon could _feel_ , from the spark in her eye, she was putting too much into Volantis to let anyone, especially a stranger such as himself, come in and upset that. Aegon scowled as she joyfully flicked his nose as if he was a babe.

"Now you see."

Then, the playfulness was gone so fast, Aegon felt dizzy and all there was left was liquid fire.

"I don't know who the fuck you are. You turned up, out of nowhere, spewing lines from my worst memories. The only reason you are not dead right now is because I checked your forearm while you were sleeping and saw no mark there. However, you obviously know who I am, you know things no one apart from me should know, and now, on the cusp of helping my aunt and uncle, you show up. I don't believe in coincidences, do you?"

Aegon stomped down on his own bitter retort that wanted to crest on his lips.

"No."

She cocked a brow at him.

"No? So, are you going to tell me how you know me? Or am I going to have to throw you back into that room?"

What could he say? I thought you were a dream? I didn't know you were real until I saw you that day? I'm still not fully sure you are not a dream and I am not losing my mind? He glanced around himself, saw the clench of Viserys's hand on his sword, saw the flicker of Haraella's own hand to the bobbled stick strapped to her thigh, her only jewellery, the black onyx ring seemingly glowing in the harsh, bright light of Volantis's sun, saw the unimpressed look of Daenerys and he knew lies would get him nowhere but to a shallow grave. Still, his words failed him.

"I've been dreaming of you."

And she laughed. Hard, full, poignant laughter that sounded like it hurt. He didn't see what was so funny, neither did Viserys or Daenerys by the glances they shot the youngest of them. Despite all this, it took a while for the laughter to die in her chest as she sniggered at him.

"Here we fucking go. Let me guess, there's a prophecy? A bad man who needs to die? When will you bloody seers leave me alone."

No more. They wouldn't laugh at him. He wouldn't play their game. Finally, he wrangled himself together and stood tall.

"I am not a seer. I am Aegon Targaryen, sixth of my name."

He looked pointedly at Daenerys and Viserys. They wanted to drive their point home? He could too. The name did nothing to Haraella, who had diverted her attention to the two it did influence. Silence fell upon them like saltwater, sticky, crusting. For the first time, they looked at him, really looked at him. They eyed his blue hair that must surely be showing roots by now. They looked at his amethyst eyes that bled blue in conjunction with his dyed hair. They scanned his height, his features, and Daenerys must have seen something, anything of familiarity as she sidled closer to Viserys, voice a little shaky and unsure.

"Aegon died in the sack of kings landing… Didn't he, Viserys?"

Viserys looked murderous, livid, barely controlled.

"He did. He got his head pulped to mush by the mountain."

Aegon scoffed. Did they not know of him? Jon had said… Jon. Had. Said. As proven before, he couldn't quite take Jon Connington's words to heart, could he? Jon had lied to him. Right to his face. Time and time again. It was a bitter pulp to try and swallow. His closest friend, the man he saw as a father, had lied to him.

"I am very much alive and well, thank you."

His own words sparked something as Viserys and Haraella shared a look, shrouded, a bit surprised but dark all the same. Haraella was next to take up the mantle of questioning him.

"Convenient that your hair is dyed blue. I suppose you have people who can collaborate your little tale?"

Her using the word _tale_ , was no mistake on her part. She was taunting him, seeing if he would break. He wouldn't. He didn't need to. He wasn't lying. He wondered then, as he saw a flash of something in her eye, if she could feel him as he felt her.

"I can wash it out. And Jon Connington, the man you arrested, along with Illyrio Mopatis can tell you the same. I _am_ Aegon. Lord Varys, if he was here, could give you the full story."

Now it was Viserys turn to laugh, though, yet again, Aegon did not see what was funny.

"Ah, yes, trust the word of the man now playing council to the usurper. Perfect!"

Something popped in Aegon's mouth when his teeth clenched, and the taste of copper assaulted his tongue. Oddly, it soothed his own rising temper. Why did they not believe him? He was standing right here! They could see for themselves! Illyrio had always told him he looked like the mirror image of his father… Was none of it real? Was it all lies? No… No. He was Aegon. That he was sure of. If nothing else, he was sure of _who_ he was.

"I am Aegon-"

Viserys's reply was scornful, acidic, mocking.

"So you've said."

Viserys skulked closer. He had a few inches on Aegon, sleek and streamlined as he was, but Aegon was more robust, his shoulders stronger.

"So, now, after our safety has been relatively assured, you've come to visit us? Do you wish to play family? Do you want a Triarch seat too, though you have done nothing, gave nothing, bled nothing for us?"

Aegon bit back the retort of _neither had he_. That had been Haraella and her dragon, not him, who had won Volantis. He may not have said it, but that snarl on Viserys's face made Aegon think that he read his thoughts clearly enough to understand. Still, Aegon had not come here to fight, and so, he fought to try and explain.

"No… No… I… You do not understand. Jon never told-"

He cut himself off. As angry as he was with Jon, for all the lies, he couldn't throw him to the dragons like that. They would kill him. If the roles were reversed, Aegon would have done the same. Instead, he tried to be as honest as he could, while keeping Jon out of the eyes of the three before him. Surprisingly, his voice was calm when he spoke. Easy.

"We believed you all to be well and healthy in Pentos."

Haraella regarded him with a sceptical eye. Aegon hated it.

"So, you knew you had family out there, knew they were relatively close, and instead of ever seeing for yourself, ever visiting them, you took rumour and honeyed words to be true?"

She laughed once more, this one sounding like Sept bells tolling in the dead.

"You're a fucking idiot!"

Aegon snapped. He didn't know where the words came from, but they erupted forth, and as soon as the first one was out of his mouth, he wished to snatch them all back in and swallow them down deep so they could never see the light of day again. But it was too late.

"Yes, of course, you're completely different. My mistake, It wasn't you who tried to kill Sirius when others informed you he had murdered your parents-"

The blast to his chest knocked the air right out of his lungs, his feet leaving the ground as he flew backwards, the marble of the floor rushing up to knock into his back harshly as he skidded across the ground, nearly flailing right off the high tower they were standing in. The next thing he knew, Haraella was crouched over him, hands scuffing into his Jerkin, hauling him up, that stick of hers pointed sharply under his chin.

"Don't you dare say his fucking name! Never! Seeing what I have done and knowing who I am are completely different things!"

From behind her, though the world momentarily swirled before him from the blow to his head, he saw Daenerys go to run towards them, but Viserys held her back with a shake of his head. Then he looked at Haraella, saw the bared teeth, the pulse of her heartbeat in her long neck, thundering, and the pain. The indescribable pain glittering in her eyes like stars. He wanted to apologize, he wanted to take the words back, he wanted the pain gone, but he just… Couldn't. Too late. Like his arrival.

"I know enough to know you will not kill me. You, Harry, are not a murderer."

They stayed like that for a life time before she unceremoniously dropped him back to the floor, Aegon releasing a breath he had not known he was holding. But she wasn't finished with him, the game was over, but the questions still hung heavy between them all. She snatched up his hand, sliced it with her stick, repeating the process with her own, before slapping the two together and muttering a long string of words that sounded guttural. His hand, her hand, their hands grew hot, tingling, as they began to glow blue with what looked like little golden flecks dancing through the mist of the unnatural light. Aegon didn't fight it.

The light and heat receded and Haraella pulled her hand away from his sharply. Weirdly, Aegon wanted the heat and prickle of soft skin back. She backed away from him, appraising him anew, and Aegon took the time to look at his own hand, flexing the limb, no cut in sight.

"Fuck."

She muttered as she swivelled to face the other two. Aegon, however, lumbered to a stand, his back aching from the short airborne trip he had taken. Or, more aptly, the crash back to solid land he had weathered.

"Well, he may be a blue haired prick, but he's my blue haired prick of a cousin."

Finally. Perhaps they could properly converse now, without hidden threats or riddles to ponder over, or Viserys looking like he wished to bite through his neck like an animal. Aegon's tone took on an edge of exasperation.

"I told you, I am Aegon VI, heir to the Iron throne-"

Yet again, as if it was all he could do, perhaps it was, he had spoken the wrong words. This time, however, it was Viserys who erupted like the volcanoes of Valyria. Magnificently bright and dangerously scorching.

"He could be from your mother's side! How do we know if this… Magic worked correctly? Do it again!"

Even though her back was to him, Aegon could see the slight wave of her long, boisterous hair as Haraella shook her head.

"It glowed blue Viserys. Blue for the paternal line. If he was from my mother's kin, it would have glowed pink or purple."

Viserys spluttered, he took a step forward, a step back, unsure whether he wanted to confront Aegon or leave the tower completely.

"And what? We simply accept him amongst us? What has he done but cower with those who play at the usurpers table? Heir to the Iron throne? Heir to the Iron throne he says!"

Viserys made his mind up as he stormed towards him, the clink of his sword being unsheathed louder than possible, ringing out between his agitated speech.

"What has he done to deserve that? He hasn't kept his family safe! He hasn't bled for them! Look at him! No scars, no bruises, nothing! He's a pampered little shit! What does he know of the Targaryen struggle? What does he know of our family but tales he has heard! I was there! I remember the sack of kings landing! He was nothing but a babe… No. No!"

Viserys's sword drew upwards, gleaming and thirsty, and Aegon went to reach for his own but felt his belt bare. Fuck. He's weapons had been stripped from him before he had been herded into that room. When the sword was a few feet away from his chest, Haraella stepped between the two, voice cool and nettled, as the tip of the very sword kissed the skin of her throat, where it should have skewered Aegon's chest, if left open. She didn't shy away from the blade, in fact, it looked like she pressed herself further into it.

"He. Is. Family. If you wish to spill his blood, you will have to spill mine too Vis."

Time stopped moving, Aegon's heart lurched and no one dared breathe. Aegon could not see Haraella's face, but he had a clear view of Viserys. It was a dark thing then, dank, foul, nothing but pitted rage and mayhem, but as Viserys looked at Haraella, something passing between the two, light began to force that horrid darkness back. His sword dropped to the floor with a clang, and without another word spoken, Viserys marched towards the stairs of the tower and left in a flurry of silver hair. Aegon placed a tender hand upon Haraella's shoulder.

"Thank you. I-"

She violently shook the limb off as if he was diseased, pivoting to face him. It was like she had sucked out Viserys's darkness only to make it her own. Anger, undiluted, bubbled across her skin, pulling the edges taught and tight, until she looked like a dragon wearing a human face.

"Don't. Who do you think you are?"

She pushed him then, really pushed him, until he skidded backwards, barely holding onto his footing.

"You come here, you act as if you know me, know us, taunt Viserys, then you try and insert yourself here through taking Viserys's claim to the throne? Where were you when they were starving? Did you house and feed Daenerys? Did you sell everything you own? Did you take the Lords ire? Who the fuck are you to think of him and speak of him that way? I should have let him take your head!"

 _Think_ of him… Had… Did they… Could they hear his thoughts? No. No. Aegon, belatedly, realized what he had said wrong. By declaring his own heirdom, he had displaced Viserys's own claim in the line of succession. With him here, as Rhaegar's son, who would have been king if he had survived the battle of the Tridant, the crown fell to Aegon. However… Viserys, Daenerys, even Haraella had not known he was alive, unlike what he had originally believed through Jon's lies. They had thought Viserys was the heir… And he had come in, like a child, demanding a seat at their table.

No doubt, if their lives had been as tough as he thought they had been when the truth of Jon's lies came out, then Viserys being heir was the only thing that had kept the man pushing, kept their survival going, kept them moving… And Aegon had come in there and snatched that from him. He had only meant to show them that he was one of them, belonged with them, instead he had come across as a sanctimonious, demanding, pampered little child who demanded the throne.

"I didn't mean to-"

She pushed him again, and this time, he was so close to the edge of the open tower that he nearly went falling over it.

"You don't mean to do a lot of things, do you? And yet, here you stand, acting arrogantly shocked someone might just question who the hell you are. If you know me, if you really have dreamed of me, of my life like you say, you know I have earned every single name I have! Every deed, every war, every survival, I have bled for, every scar I have has a loss and a victory to it… Tell me…"

She went in for the killing blow.

"What have you earned?"

Nothing. He had done nothing. He had earned nothing. Everything he had, everything he owned, had been given to him. The realization felt corrosive. Aegon fumbled, but he could not speak. Daenerys, thankfully, pulled Haraella away from him. The seven knew she looked ready to throw him overboard.

"Haraella… Find Viserys. He's angry and I fear he will aim that anger at the wrong persons."

Haraella gave him one last scorching look before she too left in a trail of thudding steps and white hair. All Aegon could do was watch. It wasn't supposed to turn out this way. He should have stated his name, explained his dreams, and they would all be family and, together, they could go back home. Instead, he had displaced an uncle, pissed off a woman who he spent most of his life dreaming of and his aunt was scowling at him.

"They loath me. _She_ loathes me."

Aegon didn't know why the thought of Haraella hating him hurt more than the thought of his uncle doing such, but it did. By the seven it did. He was not used to hate or anger being bared towards him. Jon, Varys, Illyrio, they never rose their voices to him. There had been no need. He was polite. He listened. He did what he was told… And here, he had been anything but. Daenerys's chuckle broke him out of his melancholy thoughts.

"If you believe so, then Haraella is correct, you do not know who she is."

She elaborated as she pulled him away from the edge, slowly leading him to the stairs, threading an arm through his own limp one.

"Just the other morn, she was threatening to drown Viserys in a lake after he told her we couldn't kill all the old Masters of Volantis. Of course, he retaliated by threatening to lock her into a small cage and throw her into the depths of a bottomless cave, for all the headache she was causing him. It only escalated from there, Haraella saying she would smother him in his sleep, Viserys swearing to poison her wine when she wasn't looking…"

Aegon _was_ getting a headache. He could feel it pounding at his temples. Wine. He wanted wine and lots of it. Perhaps if he partook enough of the poison, he would forget this day ever happened.

"So I should feel glad that they loath each other too?"

She shook her head and chuckled once more.

"By the seven, no. You really are quite blind, aren't you?"

She slowed down further, pulling him to a stop by the top of the spiralling staircase of the tower, twirling to face him head on. Her smile was soft, indulgent. She wasn't taunting him, mocking him, but she was finding his own confusion a form of amusement. Then her face went serious, her eyes straying to somewhere far off.

"Viserys, Haraella, they're… Close. I have known Viserys my whole life. Sometimes, he has been all that I have known, and when he gets angry, when that dragon awakens, nothing can sing it back to sleep again. And yet, when he had gone for you, Haraella had done just that."

Aegon remembered the darkness of Viserys's face clear enough to shudder at the recollection. Was Haraella safe with him? Would he turn that anger towards her? By the sound of it, Viserys had threatened Haraella before, in jest or not… He felt sick. He tried to tug his arm free, to go in search for the two Targaryen's rampaging through Volantis's palace, but despite her delicate frame, Daenerys was stronger than she looked and held him still.

"They're… Viserys and Haraella, are different to me and you. Of course, we all have that same fire inside of us, the Targaryen spirit, but theirs… They've learnt, through their lives hardships, to weaponize it, to use that anger and fire as a defence, to build a wall around them to protect themselves. Tell me, if you have seen Haraella's life, what was it like?"

Daenerys had lighter eyes than his own, a pale lilac, but they were keen, sharp and knowledgeable.

"I have only seen bits and pieces… Some do not make sense at all… But it hasn't been a pleasant one."

Daenerys nodded as if she suspected as much and began to trail him down the stairs again.

"Neither has Viserys. I think they see that in each other. They see a kindred spirit and for all the threats and anger they aim at each other on some days, it's just their way of showing affection. They see someone who knows them, who understands. They don't need to hide with one another. Viserys has never had that before, and I doubt Haraella has either."

Aegon's gut churned. The thought of Viserys and Haraella being close unsettled him more than it had any right to. Who was he to them? A stranger. Then why did it upset him so? Mayhaps because he had dreamed of this girl, as hazy as those dreams were, and in a way, thought he knew her better than most could possibly ever do, and yet, it was to him she had turned her anger towards.

"So, I should not take their threats and ire to heart. Is that what you are telling me?"

Daenerys's smile turned sly.

"Oh, no, you've misheard me. I said their threats to _each other_ are nothing but idle words. Their anger towards you is very much real."

Aegon stopped on the stairs and stubbornly refused to move any further.

"But I have done nothing!"

Daenerys reached up, grabbed the cuff of his jerkin and yanked him down the stairs to her level. He nearly face planted the floor, but she kept him steady. Perhaps throwing him around was a family trait he would need to get used to, if he were to keep his head and stay, that is. When he looked back up to her, the smile was gone, so was any warmth.

"Exactly! My brother has scraped and worked and been beaten for me, for our family's survival. Haraella, as soon as she knew of us, has dropped her dreams of this land called Mongolia, left her old land and life behind, thrown herself into the front and centre of the usurpers on coming anger, and has fought and continues to fight for us to be on top. You doing nothing, staying in the corner… Well, no doubt, Viserys and Haraella sees that as cowardice, and from the short amount of time I have known Haraella, I can truthfully say neither my brother or my niece can stand cowardice and the perceived turning your back on family."

Aegon broke as his gaze dropped to the floor, his blue hair slipping over his shoulder to tickle his face.

"I really did believe you were all in Pentos, happy."

He felt like such a child. Naive. He had always been so sure of who he was, what he was meant for, what his destiny was. He had been moulded since he was a babe. He was Aegon Targaryen, he would reclaim the Iron throne for their family, he would bring back their dynasty and secure their family legacy. Right then, he felt like none of those things. He was splintering, being hollowed out. He felt like Egg, the fool, the one who had sown discord, the pampered child. Daenerys gently grasped his chin and turned him to face her, the smile back and secure on her face.

"I know. Why do you think I am here, right now, talking to you if I believed anything but? My brother and niece are not the only ones who hate cowardice."

Then she was sliding her arm back through his, pulling him out and into the hallway.

"Now come, have some bread and wine with me and tell me of this Jon, Varys and Illyrio."

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER: VISERYS P.O.V**

* * *

 **CHAPTER NOTES:**

1\. No cliff-hangers this chapter because, well, BOY DO I HAVE A FEW COMING UP FOR YOU! (Next chapter is a mean ol' bitch of one) XD So, take this as respite because, nearly the next five chapters or so all drop off with shit going down.

2\. I didn't think I could possibly hate a chapter as much as I hated last chapter… But this one proved me wrong. I really don't know, it's just… Not quite what I thought it would be. Still, you guys seemed to like last chapter (Thank you for all the support!), so I'm hoping this one will pull through for me too lol.

3\. I already have next chapter pretty much written up and ready to go. And, as an added bonus, I really, really, like next chapter. In fact, I think it's my favourite one I've written so far. Because it's nearly done and ready to be sent out, the next update should be out by this weekend, Saturday, Sunday or Monday, depends on how much tweaking I want to do to it. It's also quite monstrous in length, so beware if that is not your thing.

 **4\. Aegon-** Yes, yes, yes, currently, Aegon is a little naive and arrogant. In my mind, the way he was raised, protected by Jon and Varys and Illyrio, left him naive. Yes, Jon made him work on the boats to 'ground' him and let him feel what the smallfolk feel, but Aegon always knew he would have food at the end of the day, a safe place to sleep, so really, he only ever felt the shadow of what the smallfolk do go through, and in my mind, it makes him a little blind to real struggles, especially seen as this is the beginning of his character arc. Plus, he is arrogant. There's no denying that. Especially in the books. He hears of Daenerys, her dragons, and his first move is to marry her as it is expected and that her dragons will be his. He doesn't even think she might have differing thoughts on the matter. He just thinks that's what will happen because he wills it to. Like every character in this fic, especially being one of the main three, his going to have growth, so he won't stay this way forever. I want all my characters to have faults. Arrogance is Aegon's, as viciousness is Viserys's and Haraella's temper is hers. I want them to feel real, and everyone real has faults.

5\. As for Aegon's connection to Haraella, seeing her life like he has, _feeling_ her, will be explored around chapter nine. I will say it is not simply dragon dreams and has everything to do with Haraella being/having been a Horcrux. Aegon and Haraella are… Let's say… Bound XD. Don't worry, all will be explained, it just didn't fit with this chapter and so It's coming up. Plus, I have to keep some cards close to my chest.

 **6\. Not next chapter, but the one after, so chapter eight… We'll finally be making a pit stop in Westeros and checking in with our favourite characters… Ooooh, am I the only one excited!?**

* * *

 **A.N:** I'll be real with you, I have epilepsy. It's a bit of a bugger to be honest, as the medication I am on lowers my immune system, (Or something like that, my neurologist and doctor used a lot of medical jargon that flew over my head), but simply put, meaning I'm more susceptible to colds, flu and other nasties. Sometimes, I'm not going to be able to update regularly. It's just not feasible. The reason this chapter is so late is because I caught a cold and it's turned into a rather nasty chest infection. When I'm ill, I don't really like writing, as what comes out is just gibberish and It takes effort that I just don't have. So, while I can't promise a proper schedule, I will update as often as I can.

I am also sorry for not replying to any reviews. I've been ill and I've just not had it in me over the last week. I do promise to go through them later and reply to as many as I can though! I really am not meaning to be rude to any of you and I do appreciate all the reviews! I just wanted to clear that up.

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! If you can spare a moment or two, drop a review! Until next time, stay beautiful! ~AlwaysEatTheRude21


	7. Only Human

_**CHAPTER MIX TAPE:**_

 _ **Timebelle: Apollo.**_

 _ **Rag 'n' Bone man: Human.**_

 _ **Lauren Aquilina: King.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER VII: ONLY HUMAN**

* * *

 **VISERYS'S P.O.V**

 _Smash._

The mirror shattered against the wall, raining down shards and fragments of silver. As the little pieces fell, Viserys could see his reflection, red faced, hazy eyed, half frozen in the act of throwing the seven damned thing against his chamber wall. Who was that man staring back at him? What was his purpose? Viserys scrubbed a hand down his face, pacing, thoughts swirling. His chambers were a mess, he couldn't breathe correctly, couldn't latch onto a thought, and now, right now, he couldn't even see his reflection as himself. It was a stranger. A fear. Something wrong. His door creaked open, thudding shut behind the intruder to his anger, and he didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

"I am Viserys Targaryen, Heir to the seven kingdoms…"

Was he? No. Not truly. Not anymore. However, if he wasn't that… What was he? What was his purpose? The ground beneath his feet felt unstable, shaky, seconds away from splitting open like a rotten corpse and swallowing him in blood and death. That throne, being heir, it was all he ever had. It was his reason. His cornerstone. It was the fire that made him fight each day when the odds were stacked against his and Daenerys's favour. But it wasn't his… It never had been. It was Aegon's. It had always been Aegon's. A boy, a man, Viserys hardly knew. A man with Rhaegar's face. Oh, he saw it alright, saw it as clear as the sunrise, how could he forget his brothers face? But he had denied it. Reverently refuted it. Explained it away. How could he do that now? He felt like he had been stripped of all he was, all he could be. Skinless. Toothless. A man who believed he had a destiny that was never really his. Haraella's voice, calm, sorrowful, piped up behind him, slicing through his whirling mind.

"He's family Viserys. Family. Would you have turned me away if I came now instead of earlier?"

His skin prickled and tightened, everything closed in on him, pulsing and his breath couldn't fill his lungs. Was he dying? Is this what dying felt like? Is this what Rhaegar, Elia, his father, Rhaenys, his mother felt? He was meant to reclaim the throne, avenge his fallen family, ensure they lived on in memory and their dynasty, but that wasn't his anymore, was it? That was for Aegon to complete. Then, what was he supposed to do? No. He would avenge them. It had been all he had wanted to do. It was up to him. Aegon didn't deserve this!

"You did not state ownership over something you have not fought for!"

But had Aegon fought? He had survived. He had lived. Alone. In the wild, without his family… But he was taking everything Viserys was, everything he stood for, stealing it from him. A stranger. But it wasn't Viserys's. It never had been. He felt sick. Twisted. Haraella's voice was closer this time, lurking in, infringing, confining.

"If I had, would you?"

Viserys shook his head and scratched at his eyes, trying to ease the storm raging inside of him.

"That's different. He's an arrogant, naive little boy who thinks his blood makes him one of us."

What was he saying? Of course Aegon was one of them. He was Rhaegar's boy. His brother's little boy. A little boy who had come to them, smiling and Viserys had unsheathed his sword at him. By the seven… What was he? What was he becoming? Decrepit. Rotten. Stinking from the inside out. _Soiled._ He trembled, he raged, he mourned, and he felt like he was falling.

"Doesn't it? He's a Targaryen, there's no denying it."

He felt a skim of a hand on his back, dancing to lay at his shoulder, warm, settling. Viserys's voice broke as the mirror had, sharp and reflective.

"The throne is all I had, all I could fight for and he-"

Aegon had not stolen anything. He had been given it. By right, the throne was his and Viserys… Viserys was nothing. Had been nothing. Will be nothing. Perhaps that was all he deserved. His anger, his vile threats, unsheathing his sword at Aegon, his own nephew, perhaps all he deserved was nothing. And still, no matter how long and hard he told himself this, he was angry. Rageful. He couldn't stop himself, couldn't stem the flow. He was bleeding, bleeding out, seeping, unwound and sagging like a sack of meat, his anger and poisonous thoughts buzzing around his head like flies.

"But it's not anymore, is it? You have Daenerys, you have me now, and in time, if he stops putting his foot in his mouth, you'll have Aegon too. Is the throne really worth more than your family?"

His whole left arm trembled, sweat condensed at his brow and no matter how hard he pushed, his body was not his own.

"Of course not!"

Then she stepped out from behind him, cradled his shoulders and perhaps she was the mirror. Perhaps everything around him was, because she mirrored his inner turmoil with the downward tilt of her chin, her own shaky breaths, the quiver of her hands upon his shoulders. Viserys's sadness was hollow. Sometimes, he was a shell, holding in an ocean of fear and anger. Other times, it felt like shards of metal stuck inside his body, between the real and his soul. Slicing.

"He's family Viserys. _Family._ Family comes first."

But he was family too, and what did he have if he didn't have the Iron throne? Would they leave him, throw him to the great grass sea?

"And what has he done for our family? Nothing. He hid away. Protected."

Even as he spoke them, Viserys believed none of the words that oiled his tongue. He simply had to get them out, away from him, out of his mind so he could think. Even if Aegon was protected by Lord Varys, this Illyrio and Jon, Viserys was no fool. Aegon would have been hiding too, just like them. Haunted like him, plagued by the thoughts of what happened to their family. Did he have nightmares too? The kind that left you breathless and quaking, stuck in sweaty sheets and boneless? And yet… Yet Viserys was jealous. Downright envious. How could he not be? Aegon had men around him, protecting him, teaching him, Viserys had not had that comfort since he was a young boy with Ser Willam Darry.

"What have I done? I wasn't here for a majority of your struggles."

Her hands fell away like flaps of a bird's wing, faltering. He knew Haraella had nightmares. Vivid ones. He heard her sometimes, when he passed her chambers on his way to his own. She didn't shout. She didn't cry. No, she made a noise worse than any scream. A whimper. Like a beaten dog. It was one of the worst sounds Viserys had ever heard. He couldn't bring himself to question it, seven forbid someone questioned his own shattered dreams, and Haraella never brought it up. She smiled, she laughed, but he always remembered those noises she made. Neither of them mentioned the dark circles under her eyes that grew a deeper mauve each day. Was she jealous of Aegon too?

"You did not know. And since you have known, you've done all you could to secure us a place. Seven hells, you took on the Triarchs to save our necks."

His breathing was better now. The walls stopped moving, but he still felt trapped. Haraella shrugged.

"Neither did he know. He thought you were in Pentos, safe."

Safe. None of them were safe. They never had been, they never would be.

"So, I should give him the throne? Just like that?"

Give away who he was, all he could be? Could he really do it? If he did, would the void devour him? Nothing and never, it was all he was filled with.

"Is it even his?"

The way she said it, so innocent, made him think he had about ten other things to explain about their land before tackling that question. She was learning, day by day, he taught her the best he could. He told her of their customs, greetings, houses of Westeros. Daenerys, who had always been better at languages then him, taught her words here or there, playing games of picking one word out for each day, a word Haraella would have to use correctly to win. She listened avidly, wide-eyed and open, but she was still muddled, confused half the time by what was happening around her. By the mother, she tried though. She would bring him books, ask about this tale or that history, ponder over old wars, slinked out into the street, asked the smallfolk about their own culture and their own stories. She was a curious little thing, always asking, always listening, always doing something. Never still for long. He wandered if Aegon was the same…

"The line of succession isn't hard to follow. Rhaegar would have been king if he had not fallen at the Tridant. Aegon, his first-born son, would have followed him. It was only after the news of Aegon and his sister's death that my mother crowned me on Dragonstone before we had to flee. With Aegon being alive, as he is, my mother's declaration meant nothing. Me being heir meant nothing. Everything I've done, fought for, nothing."

Haraella took to pandering her gaze around his chambers, spotting the over turned table, the broken mirror. In truth, he had been angrier at himself than this boy, Aegon. Who was he? Who was Viserys if not heir to the Iron throne? Who was he to draw a sword upon his nephew?

"I can't argue with you. Lines and successions… I know jack shit about it. But I do know one thing. Family above all. Are we really going to turn him away because he's alive, because he was fed lies and believed them? If so, I should have been turned away from many people during my life."

His eyes slid shut like sinking ships, his vision wavering like ocean tides. He felt like a ghost, a living, breathing, wretched ghost.

"But it's all I had. All I was-"

Skin met skin as fingers and palm coasted along his jaw. He slipped back to life, blinking open, like a fawn.

"No. It isn't and never has been all you were. You're not something that can be whittled down to a title. None of us are. You are Viserys Targaryen. You looked after your sister the best you could when no one else would. You carried our name when everyone else was afraid to. Viserys…"

They didn't see. No one did. They saw Haraella's temper, they saw her fire and thought of destruction. They didn't feel the heat that kept the chill at bay, they didn't realize she lit those fires to keep those she cared about warm, even if it meant burning herself. She hadn't gotten angry at Aegon for her own jealousy, he knew that now. She had cracked because she had thought he was being attacked. Usurped. Replaced. Threatened… Because, he too, had felt that way. Somehow, it had bled over to her and she had snapped like he had.

"We need you. I need you. What is to come… None of us can do it alone."

And now, with the way she was talking, speaking of Aegon, he could hear the woeful regret singing in the tone of her voice. Whatever happened once he had left, it had not been pretty, he would bet, and now, because she felt what he felt, perhaps through that mind link she kept open to him and Daenerys, she had broken as he wished he had. Only, she had magic. And still, she was here, comforting him, as if he wasn't the catalyst to this pitiful story.

"Who else will teach me these strange customs? Who else will whether teaching me languages when I can't even say my name is-? Who else will tell me of the histories? Who will point out family friend from foe? I can't do this without you."

She saw his differences, saw his struggles, both inner and outer, actions and emotions others ran from, and instead, she stayed true and strong for him when he couldn't. She was the anchor. The rest he wanted, the rest he needed, the calmness to soothe his searing temper that ate him whole. They, he, Daenerys, Haraella, Aegon too, they were all broken in their own ways. Reflections of their shattered dynasty. But, perhaps, together, they could fix the mirror. But no. No. It was too late for him. His nephew… He had gone to… A sword… He didn't deserve the throne. He didn't deserve his sister. He didn't deserve his nephew's forgiveness. He didn't deserve Haraella's understanding. He should leave. Run. Save them from him and his anger while he still could.

"Daenerys can-"

Her hand slipped to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear.

"Daenerys is kind, and gentle and soft. You know what I am like by now. I would run over her like a boulder. I'm bull-headed and I often run into decisions before fully thinking them through. You're the only one who stopped me from killing all the slave masters when I found out about slavery, because you knew it would lead to a revolt we can't get back from, and then where would the slaves be? You're the one who taught me to bind our enemies to us, and to make them friends, should we face a city full of them."

Her hand went to pull away, but Viserys grabbed onto it, threaded his fingers through hers. Holding her, feeling something real, something alive, it didn't make him feel like he would float away. She didn't pull away either, and perhaps, she needed grounding too.

"Westeros is not a city, it's a country. A country full of people who likely want to see us dead. Without you, I would no doubt, create a country full of enemies. I have no head for courtly politics, neither does Daenerys. She's too soft, and I am too hard when it comes to the highborns. Daenerys is good for diplomacy. I am good for rallying the smallfolk and strategy. You are good with the Lords and Highborns, people we will need on our side to build Volantis up. To take on Westeros when the time comes."

He squeezed her hand.

"Aegon can-"

She squeezed back.

"You heard him. He believed everything this bloody Jon Connington said. This Lord Varys too, who you said sits on the council of the man who wants us dead. He's too trusting. We need shrewd, politically savvy Viserys if we're ever going to see you, Daenerys and Aegon home. Daenerys is too soft. I lack all political awareness and regard. Aegon is too trusting and you can be too bloodthirsty. We all have our faults. But together, we cover those blind spots."

He parroted back her earlier words. Mirrors and reflections. He couldn't escape them.

"Family above all…"

Her thumb stroked along his own. A gentle sweep, lapping, calming.

"Family above all. Apart, the Baratheon and his allies will rip us to shreds. Together, we might just make it home."

Her words stalled him more than she realised.

"It's the first time you've ever said we and home."

She did pull away then, leaving his own limb to drop down uselessly to his side. She hesitated in the middle of the chamber, unsure of herself, before she sank onto the edge of his bed, elbows balanced on bent knee, chewing her bottom lip. She was nervous.

"I… I've never had a home or a family before. I've had places I have slept in, relatives that beat me and locked me in a cupboard, but never a home and a family. It's new to me. The idea, no, the reality of it? Feels strange. Almost like a fever dream. And look! Look how well I am doing with it. I nearly fucking threw Aegon off the tower, I pushed him, I… I put my wand to his neck."

She scrubbed at the bridge of her nose.

"All I know Is now that I have it, I don't want to let it go. I _won't_ let it go. I don't want you to let it go either, and if you turn your back on Aegon, if you let him go, I will have to leave too. Being alone in the world… No one should be alone. I owe him that much."

Now he knew why she was nervous. She never spoke of her life before. She dodged all questions with diverting glances and hurried steps. She switched subjects, pretended she didn't hear you, or gave you the bare minimal to satisfy your curiosity. It was the first time she had let her guard down. Willingly.

"And I'm a horribly selfish, territorial sort of person. If I hold something and think of it as mine, it's _mine._ Daenerys is _my_ aunt. You are _my_ uncle. Aegon is _my_ cousin. _My_ family. _Mine._ Once something is mine, I don't let go easily. Not without a fight. And as much as you are all mine, I am equally just as much as yours. I am _your_ family. If Aegon wishes to go, he can go. If he wishes to stay, he'll stay. The same for you and Daenerys. If we're going to be a family, we need to _want_ to be a family."

Viserys sank into the bed, sitting next to her, thigh brushing thigh.

"That doesn't sound selfish, it sounds like devotion."

Silence drifted down upon them before Haraella broke it.

"I've been haunted by the number three my whole life."

Viserys frowned, cocking his head as he eyed his niece. She refused to meet his gaze, instead adamantly choosing to steadily stare at the wall opposite them, as if it could give her all the answers.

"Haunted?"

Her shoulders went rigid, but she chuckled too. Contradictions. She was riddled with them.

"I know, it sounds strange, being haunted by a bloody number, but I have. It's always been there, throughout everything I have done. The number three. Always there. Lurking."

She lent backwards, bracing her hands against her knees, back straight and stiff like an arrow, and still, she would not look away from the wall.

"Hating a number, well, it's a strange thing for anybody to do. But I did. I detested the number three. My people, my mother's people, wizards and witches, they have three curses, spells, magic. They're unforgivable, even to the darkest of my kind. The crutiatus curse, the Imperio curse and the Killing curse. One tortures you, the other overlays your will upon another and well, I don't think I need to explain what the killing curse does."

Her knuckles bled white as her fists clenched, and he realised she was forcing herself to open up, to let the words free from the cage of her chest. She had never elaborated before. Of course, she had told him and Daenerys the basics. She was from a place called Land of Eng. There, people like her were abundant. Magic was common, though they hid themselves in fear of persecution. She learnt at a school, the same school her mother went to. Daeron, who had been injured in the battle of the Rat, the Hawk, and the Pig, had somehow managed to find himself in this strange land. Basics. Bones. But nothing more. Never more. Nothing and never.

"My kind also has three objects, the deathly Hallows we call them, taken from death himself. The tales convoluted, but in short, three brothers bested death. Not one to be snatched a meal from, he played the long game with them. He offered them gifts. The elder wand was given to one brother, a wand of untold power, the best ever made. The resurrection stone was given to another, a pebble with the power to partially recall others from deaths grasp. The last was a cloak, capable of turning its owner invisible, and was given to the only brother who had figured out death was not one easily done by and would eventually come after them again. The wand drew jealous people who wished to have that power themselves and the brother who owned it was killed in a duel. The one with the resurrection stone, having recalled a lost love who had committed suicide, grew insane when he could not touch or really be with the phantom he had summoned, and too committed suicide to be with his love. The tale goes the last one, having lived a long and full life, eventually gave his cloak to his son, to pass down to his own children, and greeted death like an old friend."

Viserys, rightly, didn't quite know what to say in the light of this information.

"An interesting story."

She smiled at him then, her fingers relaxing and flushing pink as blood seeped back in, as she finally looked upon him, but the gesture never fully reached her eyes.

"It's not a story. I united all three deathly Hallows, resurrected myself. It's how I earned my title, master of death. But it's there again, the number three."

Resurrected herself? Resurrected? Was it a metaphor? A turn of saying? Haraella had a lot of them, strange ones from her stranger people. Still, a pit sank his gut. She said it so cleanly, carelessly, like stating it was a sunny day. Before he could question her, she was rolling onwards, once again, dutifully dodging the real questions.

"Even my parents, Daeron, Lily… There was rumours you see, tales I wasn't supposed to overhear but heard all the same. Apparently, my godfather James Potter, wasn't simply my godfather…"

The implication was as clear as her rigid, emotionless voice. _The dragon must have three heads._ He could hear Rhaegar again, as if he was right beside him. In truth, the number three, now that he thought upon it, was important to his own family. To _their_ family. Aegon, Visenya, Rhaenys. Rhaegar had married Elia, and yet, had ran after the Stark girl. Polygamy was common practice in their family, and oddly, it was normally three that formed the union.

"They, Daeron and Lily…"

It wouldn't surprise him too much to find out that Daeron had entered such a pact himself. Trinity offered sanctuary, safety, strength. Now that he was really thinking about it, three really was everywhere. Their religions, the old gods, the seven, R'hllor. Three prophesied heroes, Azor Ahai, the last hero, the prince that was promised. Even their land fell to the rule of three, Westeros, Essos and Sothryos. Haraella huffed, flopped backwards and stared up at the canopy of the bed, legs dangling off the edge.

"I don't know for sure, I've only heard whispers. But James was there the night my parents died when he shouldn't have been. Died with them too after putting up a fight to protect them and me. He even left me one of the deathly Hallows, an heirloom that had been in his family for generations. Why would he do that if not for… From the stories I've heard of them and him, I wouldn't be surprised if I was honest. True or not, there it is again. Lily. Daeron. James. Three."

Viserys slid back too, staring up at the sun stitched golden canopy.

"There was a war too, the reason my Parents died. There were three major players in it. Tom Riddle, the man who killed my parents on the hearsay of a prophecy, convinced I, nothing but a babe at the time, would be the one to kill him. Albus Dumbledore, a manipulative bastard who used others as pawns in his grand game, a man who fought Tom before, and me, a child with a scar and a knack for getting into trouble she had no business being involved in. One. Two. Three."

She lifted her fist and flicked the digits up on the count of her words.

"Growing up, I had two friends. Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. Without them, I would have died. Permanently, at any rate. Me, Hermione, Ron. Three again. It fucking follows me. But, I've come to realize, it's not simply a number, oh no. It's so much more."

She craned her neck, angled oddly, uncomfortably, so she could stare fathomlessly at him. Viserys found he could not look away. Hooked, like a fish.

"Power, love, knowledge. That's what it stands for."

She became animated then, hands moving, extenuating her words, face lit and dynamic. It was the most alive he had seen her since their chase in that back alleyway. Her feelings we're often concealed, barbed with sarcasm, stained with irony. He knew why she did so, for he too hid his with derision and haughtiness. It was to prevent themselves from being hurt, from mockery. The difficulty with Haraella was her sarcasm, her bite, made her seem cold. Detached. Unreachable in her icy fortress.

Laying there, with him, on a bed of rumpled sheets, rambling as she was, she was the most vulnerable he had ever seen her. More so then when she was bleeding out in the streets, more so when he heard those whimpers from her locked door. Here, she was honest, a spark, believable. She could have told him that she was born of the stranger and had raven's wings and he would have accepted it as truth.

"You see, the Imperius curse forces your will onto another, implants your power over someone. The Elder wand was and is the most powerful wand. In the war, Tom was the most influential, no doubt about it. And in my friends, I was the powerhouse. Power."

Amazement didn't quite describe Haraella's condition then. Viserys, watching her, felt like she had taken a cindering coal of wonder and threw it into a bonfire of possibilities. Nothing was closed to her, nothing couldn't be linked and coded, everything had its place in her world. He marvelled at how that stability must have felt to her.

"The resurrection stone can let you see those who have died, those you have loved. In the war, I stood for love, I died to protect those I loved. The killing curse takes those you love from you and Ron, well, he was always the heart and soul of our little group. Love."

Her smile, as lopsided as it was, felt shallow in a way. Disjointed. Unable to adequately reflect the whirlwind he could see frothing underneath the surface. It was like, behind her skin, everything was firing at once, igniting, shooting in all directions.

"The cloak that turns you invisible, lets you gain knowledge from things you otherwise couldn't witness, it also taught me the wisdom of passive resistance, not all needs to end in blood. The crutiatus curse, if used long enough on a person, ruins them, breaks their mind, strips them of all knowledge until they don't even know who they are. As much as I dislike the old man, Albus knew so much, there wasn't anything that slipped his gaze. He was always five steps ahead of me and Tom. And Hermione, damn, there wasn't a thing she didn't know. Knowledge."

She seemingly jolted then, unable to stay prone on her back when her insides and mind were catching. She rolled onto her stomach, nearly lurching across his own relaxed form, as she tucked her legs up tight, sitting cross legged and haunched, like a tightly coiled viper.

"Three has always been there. I used to hate it, but I understand now. Three is the perfect balance. It is love, knowledge and power. Lily, Daeron, James. Me, Albus, Tom. Ron, Hermione, me. The resurrection stone, the cloak, the elder wand. Balance. No matter where I go, where I run to, three is always there, waiting. Balance is always to be found."

She had more to say, something, a little fledgling of a bird not quite ready to leave the nest of her mouth. The anticipation caused a nervous sort of energy within Viserys, not entirely unpleasant. Little sparks of lightning, a tingle, gathering in his toes, dispersing up his legs, made him feel as if he could walk on clouds. Then the little bird flew into the sun.

"Me… Aegon…"

Viserys sprang up, almost knocking Haraella back and off the bed.

"You believe there's another Targaryen out there."

Could there really be another one? Had Rhaenys, his niece, survived too? No, she had been too old to conceal her body fully once presented to that bastard of a usurper. Then who? A cousin? No, his line was the only one left. Rhaegar had died at the Tridant, murdered. Daeron in this land of Eng, murdered too by this… Tom Riddle. Viserys was here and adamantly sure he had fathered no child, neither had Daenerys. Haraella seemed all too focused on the bigger picture, her age too, was unlikely to have a child, and he was sure, if she had, that child would have been with her. She didn't seem the type to leave family behind, especially a child of her own. That left Aegon, but even then, the idea didn't fit.

"It always comes in threes. Power. Love. Knowledge. With my dragon and my magic, I fit the power role. Aegon, if he has been dreaming of me, and perhaps this other Targaryen too, even if he does not know it, and if he has been taught to rule, has the knowledge… But where is the love? Where there is the other two, the last one must follow. Three hidden dragons…"

Viserys's gaze travelled to the broken mirror at the base of his chambers wall. Shards, jagged, but he could fix them, melt the silver back together. It may have a few cracks, a hole here or there, but it would still be good. It seemed like a life time since it was just he and Daenerys. A piece had been added and soon, it had been him, Daenerys and Haraella. Then, like melting silver flowing into a pool, Aegon had joined the mix and now, today, their family stood four strong. Could there really be another one out there? Five? Once again, Rhaegar's ghost haunted him.

"There must be three heads… Is there a way you could find this other one? Magic? A spell?"

She took on an air of sheepish neutrality then. So different to the warrior he had seen flying upon her dragon, landing in the market square. For all her worth, in the setting sun of Volantis that was dusting his chambers pale orange, she looked all and less of her six and ten years. It felt dissonant, seeing her that way, realising, belatedly, that she was but a child herself, younger than even Aegon. She spoke of such tragedy with resolute iron, cold and unyielding, of loss with nothing in her voice, that she seemed so much older, so much larger than what she really was, a child who had been forced to age too fast. In truth, they all had.

"To be honest? Most of the magic I know is offensive and defensive, meant for war, survival and battle. I am, after all, a fighter. I didn't learn much else, I didn't really have the time to. But, I'll find a way. I always do. I'll find them. Only, will you react to them the same way you have to Aegon?"

A tangible spectre came to Viserys then. Visceral, slightly feral. A small beast in the back of his mind that begged to be fed. However, it would take time to grow into fruition. Until then, he would feed it privately, water it, let it grow to the strong oak he knew it could be.

"We work together. None above the others. All or none. When the time comes for someone to sit on the Iron throne… We'll decide then. We'll _all_ decide."

The answering smile of Haraella Targaryen was the smile of a conqueror. Good. That was what Viserys needed. Just a hint of possibility. Chance. Time to grow a tree that would blossom for all to see, like he had come to see.

"All or none… I like that."

Before Haraella could say more, or for Viserys to reply, a sharp knock rattled his door. Viserys bit out a luting _enter,_ and the man, one of Haraella's favoured advisors from Volantis, a hound breeder and trader called Tartho, stood tall in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back as he politely bowed.

"Lady Haraella, the golden company swords have been collected and left in the armoury, as you have asked. Also…"

Tartho grew confused, Viserys could see it in a twitch of his nose, like he was fighting a sneeze, but the man carried on.

"The Lion and stag's heads you have requested have been delivered with the swords too. They are awaiting you."

She clapped once and scampered off the bed, her bare feet padding on the marble.

"Brilliant! Thank you for your service, as always Tartho. I will be down to the armoury shortly, meanwhile, transfer them all to the courtyard outside. My dragon needs to get near them and I don't wish to burn the halls down. Plus, if you have an hour spare later, a game of Cyvasse would be pleasant."

The smile Tartho gave to Haraella was genuinely friendly and warm. As was most of the smiles the smallfolk gave Haraella. Even with her always running, always doing something, she somehow, someway managed to wrangle in time to speak to the common folk. She asked them about their families, played games with them, handed out food in the street, bread and meats and cheeses, often blending her duties with her leisure time, Cyvasse being a quick favourite game of hers, and by the seven, she was deadly in it.

"For you my lady? Always. I shall set the board up."

Tartho nodded, and with a flutter of his powder blue robes, left down the hallway.

"What are you planning now? Are we to feast on animal brain off swords?"

You never quite knew where Haraella would go, which direction she would take, it was part of her charm, that unpredictability. When Viserys had argued against her, in the beginning of taking their Triarch seats, he had wanted to gather men and begin their reclamation of the Iron throne. Haraella, however, had disagreed whole-heartedly. She would not leave, not unless Volantis was stable, prosperous and growing. She would not turn her eye to Westeros until she knew the Volantenese would be able to sustain themselves once the Targaryen's departed. A blazing row had taken place, ending in a vote, and with his sister siding with Haraella, the dye had been caste. Viserys, of course, did not like the decision. But he could at least see its merits now.

"You told me, back in that alleyway, that the usurper would hear of us eventually, didn't you? That he would send his might when he does hear of us?"

Viserys nodded and came to a stand, his words extinguishing on the end of his breath.

"If he already hasn't."

Haraella became quiet and subdued, but hardy. A stone castle on a hill. Harrenhall in full splendour.

"He hasn't. I have made sure of it. I want our voice to be the first he hears."

Viserys crossed his arms, pulling to his full height.

"And what will this voice be telling him?"

Haraella made her way to the door, Viserys joining her side. She held a confidence inside of herself, one unlike most. It was the confidence of a phoenix, one who had suffered its burning, fell to ashes, only to try and rise again, reborn into living flames of scorching pain, but still having the heart to sing. It was a confidence hard won, Viserys knew, deep, anchored in experience rather than self-belief.

"That war is unnecessary, unwanted… But should he wish it, should he and this Tywin Lannister push for it, death _will_ come for him and his allies. "

She looped her arm through his, footsteps light and fast. He matched her stride for stride, beat for beat, blink for blink.

"Come, I need your help. I need to know what the Iron throne looks like exactly if I am to replicate it correctly, and I also need your and Daenerys's help in writing down the letters we will be sending to the Lords of Westeros. Also, I need a ship, a big one we can spare, with a Targaryen banner for its sail."

* * *

 **AEGON'S P.O.V**

Dusk had fallen peacefully over Volantis. His aunt, Daenerys, had left him hours ago, on the words of a servant boy who had informed her Haraella and Viserys had summoned her to the Armoury's courtyard. No more had been spoken in his presence, and with an affable smile and a promise of visiting him in the morn, she had left him to the barrage of his own thoughts. That, of course, had ended with Aegon turning to drink heavily from the flagon of richly spiced wine she had left behind. He was on his ninth cup, quickly planning for a tenth, when the knock at his chamber doors jumped him from his melancholic stupor.

"Enter."

Had Daenerys left something behind? Cutting a glance to the sky he could see from his open balcony, he saw night settling in around him and realized that, no, he had not drunk through the night. By the time he faced the doors to his chambers once more, the door had been opened and closed and there, right on the threshold of his rooms, stood Haraella. He dropped his cup back onto the table, jostled to a stand and… Did nothing. What was he to do? Had she come to belittle him some more? Was she here to sentence him for crimes he had no part in?

"I am sorry."

Aegon fumbled.

"What?"

Haraella looked around his room, gazed out to the open balcony, turned her eye to his wine, looked at everything, all apart from him.

"What I did in the tower… I shouldn't have…"

He could see her slowly shake herself, her hands flexing before she strolled to his chambers table, whisking up a cup and pouring herself a glass of wine before she inelegantly chugged it. Evidently, she did not like the taste as she gulped it down, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand like a sailor, as her face screwed up and scrunched like scrap parchment. Still, she was gaining something from it as she diligently poured herself another glass and repeated the movement. After her third cup, she slapped the cup back down onto the table, hissing through her teeth, but finally finding her words.

"I'll be honest with you. I'm a self-righteous, arrogant, angry cunt when I want to be."

Clearly, not only were her drinking habits reminiscent of Aegon's ship-mates, but her mouth was too. He had never heard a woman use the word cunt before, especially when describing themselves. However, she wasn't done.

"I run head first into danger, I barely think anything through and I often aim my frustrations at people who don't deserve it."

She poured herself another glass, but this one she took her time with, sipping at the surface like a doe drinking from a pond. Aegon, however, didn't know what to say. Was he meant to agree? Disagree? Everything was muddled, nothing was as it should be. From his dreams, the little he could clearly remember, he had always pictured a warrior. A hero. Someone standing tall against all that had tried to knock them over. Unreachable. Untouchable. Here, faced with her reality, she seemed so very, very… Human. A tired, nervous, just as confused human as he was. She was not some character from a song or ballad, no white knight, just human, like the rest of them.

"Don't be angry at them. It wasn't Daenerys or Viserys who kept you in this room… It was me. All me."

Aegon took a deep drag from his own cup as he let that piece of information fester inside of himself. Plainly, heavy in his drink, unsettled by the days events, more confused than anything else, Aegon was only capable of one syllable questions.

"Why?"

She swirled her cup, frowning down at the mulled red as it rippled and danced, lashing up the sides of her golden cup. Oddly, he noticed she was still barefoot, though she had changed out of her leather breeches for some velvet ones. Did she not own any shoes?

"I was… I was scared. Terrified really."

She was scared? Of him? He had seen her face down armies, fight creatures he couldn't possibly imagine, look death in the eye and smile. The possibility of her feeling an emotion such as fear never really crossed his mind. It didn't seem conceivable. In his thoughts, Haraella and fear did not mix. Oil and water. Sky and land. The two never touching. And yet, he saw no lie there, no dishonesty in her face. Perhaps she had been right. Perhaps he did know what she had lived through, at least partially, and yet, he did not really know Haraella at all.

"I didn't mean-"

She cut him off soundly, politely, with a stilted shake of her head.

"No, it wasn't your fault. It's mine. You were there, saying things, speaking words from dead men and friends and it… It terrified me. You said you've dreamt of me… That is how you know these things?"

Aegon nodded.

"Yes."

It was silent for a beat as Haraella took a seat at the table, Aegon following her example, watching, though she still never looked in his direction. He knew why now. It wasn't a slight against him. It wasn't because she thought him unworthy. It was because he scared her. He reminded her of things she wanted to forget.

"How long have you been dreaming of them? Of me?"

Aegon finished off his own cup and poured another. If there was any time for self-indulgence, it was now. He never really dabbled in wine or drink, but there was a time and place for most things, he thought. And if that time wasn't when facing a spectre of your dreams, he didn't know when the time would be acceptable.

"A long while."

She inclined her head as if she knew that would be his answer.

"You see, it hasn't been a long while for me. The war, in truth, only finished for me around a year ago. Less, I think. Funny, I'm not quite sure. It felt like yesterday."

The comprehension that came to him felt cutting. Cold and slicing. He had been so focused upon himself, his own dreams that he had been having since he could remember, that he forgot, overlooked, even to now, that they weren't really dreams. They were a life. A real life. To her, they weren't dreams. They were pain, loss and tragedy that, unlike his dreams, had happened to her, some recently. And he had kept throwing that right back into her face, shoving it under her nose. It was still all fresh for her. A wound Aegon had come and poured salt upon.

"I've been running from it really… The memories… I ran and ran and there you were, making me remember and I… I panicked. I locked you away and I made up excuses to myself to keep you away, so I wouldn't have to face any of it again. I wanted to bury my head in the sand and hearing you… I implied you were a coward, and really, it wasn't you, it was me. For that, I truly am sorry."

Haraella locked eyes with him. Making mistakes was easy, Aegon had made his own fair share of them. Every human alive did so. They grew angered, they spited, they backstabbed. But to stand tall, to look a person in the eye and own up to your mistakes is when a boy becomes a man, Jon used to tell him.

"Then at the tower, I… I put my hands on you. I hurt you. I tried to and that… That is unforgivable."

The chuckle she gave was husky, hollow, broken and weeping. It was a sound Aegon wished he had never heard.

"If Sirius had of seen me up there, he would have hit me himself."

She took a final drink from her cup before she discarded it onto the polished table. Now that she had decided to look him in the eye, she seemingly refused to look anywhere else. Pinning him into place like an insect stuck under a glass jar.

"I nearly killed a boy once. Draco was his name… Did you see that?"

His fingers tightened around his cup, his jaw clenching.

"No."

Even as he spoke, something flashed before his eyes. A shock of red. The sound of sobbing. Blonde hair. However, before he could hold onto it, it was flying away from him, escaping his grasp.

"We got into a fight, I cornered him in a bathroom, privy chamber to you, and I was angry. No, anger doesn't fit what I felt that day. I was something mean and cruel and vile. I used a spell that I didn't quite realize what it did. It hit him, and the blood…"

She lent heavily backwards in her plush chair, as if she could physically distance herself from her memory.

"It was horrid. He laid there, sobbing, bleeding out and I stood above him and for a split moment, just one, as I saw the life seeping out of him… I was happy. What sort of monster feels happy when they see another dying?"

What kind of monsters were any of them? He, who pictured Tywin Lannister crippled at his feet, head being smashed to mulch, like the man had wished to do to him. He, who pictured the Baratheon king bleeding, headless, sobbing like surely his sister Rhaenys had when the mountain took her young life from her. Those fantasies made him happy. They gave him sound sleep. If Haraella was a monster, so was he, so was Viserys, so was Daenerys. So was the rest of the whole fucking world.

"You are _not_ a monster."

The skin of her right cheekbone spasmed, she melted further back into her chair and her arms came up and chained themselves around her body, locking her in, blocking him out.

"I was in that bathroom. For that one moment, I was my worst fears. I snapped back. Realised what I was feeling, knew how wrong it all was, and I promised myself, I swore to any god that would listen, that I would never feel or do as I did then."

She diverted her eyes and grew tense, and Aegon found his own body solidifying, growing roots within his own chair, fastening him to the floor.

"Then you mentioned Sirius, and I was no longer in that tower. I was back at the vail, back with Bellatrix's laughter ringing in my ears. I saw him right there, slipping from my grasp again… Fingers brushing mine… and that anger was back. Before I knew it, I was standing over you, watching you wheezing on the floor, had my wand at your neck… And I felt happy."

Aegon tried to picture the roles reversed. Haraella, a stranger he had never dreamt of, stating she was heir to the throne. He, tired, stressed, trying to protect Viserys and Daenerys, hearing her mention Rhaenys, or his mother, and his folly in not protecting them, even if he was but a babe. Could he say he would have not snapped? No. No he couldn't. He would have. When it came to family, those you loved, there were no limits.

"I broke my own promise, I became the monster again. I can't fix that, I can't erase it, and no longer can I run. I am not a good person, but I try to be."

Her arms winded tighter, tunic stitches straining, so hard Aegon was sure she would dislocate an arm, perhaps bruise a rib.

"I belittled your own pain and struggle. I, like a fucking child, compared your life, or what I thought was your life, to my own and pettily, like it's some form of fucking competition, found yours less to mine, thinking it made yours invalid. It doesn't. Pain is pain, no more, no less. All of us, we've all been through our own shit. I don't need to be there making bloody tally points."

Then she bounced out of her chair, as if she could not stand to be still any longer, shakily going to pour herself more wine. The splash of a spill looked like blood on the table, and Haraella refused to look at it.

"I'm not perfect. Far from it. I'm no hero. I'm an angry, vicious and vindictive girl. I always have to strike first, even against people who don't deserve it, because I feel like there's always something right there, hanging above my head, ready to drop."

War-blooded. That was the name. Men who came back from battle, body healed and scarred, but mind still lost in swords and screams. Aegon had seen one once or twice, old friends of Jon's. They were always on guard, weary, waiting. At night, they screamed and cried into their pillows. One time, Aegon had saw one frenzied when he heard a clang of metal, watched as he lashed out to any near him on the dock, trying to draw blood, blind to the world around him, heart thundering, wild and scared and angry. It had taken Jon and three other men to pin him down, even longer to calm him. Aegon had been worried for the man who had broke, but Jon had promised Aegon he would get better, he just needed time. _It takes time to find your demons, even longer for you to kill them and no one else can do it for you._ Haraella, he knew now, had had no time since the war she had faced.

Haraella's dark circles, unkept hair and bare feet made a sad sort of sense now. Her lashing out at him after he stubbornly quoted those from his dreams, her life, her dead friends, took on a whole new meaning. Her adamant, almost blind and neurotic protection of his aunt and uncle, her sense of impending doom, held reasoning so easy to see now, when previously, it had only seemed confusing.

"Either way, this isn't about me. It's about you. I'm sorry. You deserved nothing of what I have said or done to you… Dammit, I didn't even say hello, I just threw you into a fucking room… I can't fix it with words, sorry doesn't cover much, but I can try and make it right. Here."

Then she was discarding her cup again and leaving right out of his chambers door, letting it slip open and stay that way. He was still, frozen, unsure once again. Should he follow? Should he stay? What was happening? Just as he pulled himself from his chair, she was back, someone shadowed behind her. She stepped out of the way, pushing herself close to the wall and the man, Aegon could tell by the breadth of the shadows shoulders, stepped into the failing light.

Blue hair. Red beard. Jon. Ahead of thinking anything, Aegon found himself crossing the distance and throwing his arms around the man. Jon Connington may have lied to him, kept him in the dark, but he was the only thing close to a father Aegon had ever known. He loved him. Truly, he did. Jon squeezed back just as hard. It took a while for the two to pull apart, but when they did, Aegon eyed Jon up and down. He had lost no weight. He was clean. Well dressed. Wherever Jon had been kept, he had been treated well.

"You are both free to leave if you wish. I will give you rides, food, money, anything you need to get to where you want to go. Ask, and it's yours."

Aegon's gaze flickered between Jon and Haraella. The former was bright eyed and smiling, the latter was gazing down to the floor.

"What if I want to stay?"

Haraella honestly, truly, genuinely looked bewildered that he might just feel that way.

"I can't promise everything will be sunshine. I can't promise it won't be a struggle. I can't promise much actually. As today has shown, I'm pretty poor at keeping promises."

Her gaze picked up from the floor, slithered to his own and bolted in tight.

"But I can swear you will always have a home with me. Leave if you want to, come back years later, come back tomorrow, stay, the door will always be open. You are family. You are one of us… I should have never disputed that. I had no right."

Aegon saw the real her then. Not the warrior of his dreams. Not the angry mage on the tower. But her, a small girl, hurting, broken by life… But still good. Still trying. She may have had friends before, people she had loved, but she never had family. It was all new to her, new and raw and she didn't quite know how to sail those seas, but she was trying. Always trying. She just needed someone to show her how to paddle.

"What if I said I wanted the Iron throne?"

Her eyebrow cocked and her skin became Valyrian steel.

"All or none. We all lead, together. When the time comes for the Iron throne, Viserys has said you'll both decide then. Until that point in time, all of us together. Can you live with that?"

Aegon looked to Jon, tried to read the face, the minute curl of a lip, the diminutive inclination of his head. Aegon knew what he was going to say without Jon's approval. However, Jon was important to him, if he was going to venture into something, he wished to have the man at his back. Apparently, they were both in accordance.

"I suppose I could…"

The petulant look on his face was comical, the small huff laughable and Haraella knew as easily as Jon that Aegon was trying to joke, to make light of the heavy circumstances they were all under. A smile cracked her face in two and it was like seeing sunlight for the very first time.

"However… I have my own condition."

Perhaps he had laughed to soon…

"What?"

She pointedly looked up at his hair.

"The blue hair has to go. It's a fucking eye sore."

Aegon grinned just as Haraella's own turned to dust. Her gaze jumped to something behind him, out on the balcony, and then she was throwing herself at him, pushing him and Jon to the side.

"Get down!"

Something thick, black, made from dank smoke that smelled ancient, withered, rotten, with spindly legs and arms, crawled into the room from the edge of the balcony like a fat, monstrous spider. Haraella reached for her stick, but the creature lept, wrapping itself around her like a cloak, losing form, becoming liquid. Aegon found his feet, made a dash for Haraella just as she let out an excruciating scream. A reaching hand away, the thing tightened, Haraella's scream cut off to choking and there was a bang as the creature with no face condensed into a ball, lifting up, levitating, and shot out onto the balcony and out into the sky, flying away.

"Harry! Harry! Haraella!"

His shouting did nothing as Jon pulled him back from running out onto the balcony, dragging him from the room. Haraella was gone too. Vanished. As if she was never there. The creature had taken her. Jon pushed him down the hallway, eyes frantic and lips tight, though he made sure to keep check over his back, dare the creature come back.

"Get to Viserys and Daenerys lad! Run! Go! Tell them the fucking Undying ones have just abducted their niece!"

Aegon ran.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER: WE TAKE A QUICK STOP IN WESTEROS…**

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 **NOTES ON THIS CHAPTER:**

 **1.** Hopefully, this chapter gives some reasoning to exactly why Haraella acted the way she did in the previous one. Originally, I had planned to keep this chapter linked with the previous one, but this one is over 9,000 words long and last chapter was 8,000 and a half, so together, it was just not practical to keep them together, but, at the same time, you get another update this week!

 **2\. As for Haraella,** living the sort of life she has, fighting a war as a child, having abusive/neglectful relatives, all her near-death experiences, being on the run and watching those she loved dearly die in front of her, has obviously had repercussions on her. In my eyes, and this fic, Harry/Haraella would have some form of **PTSD.** She's a text book diagnosis, showing all red flags. If you've read closely, you'll have noticed I've been laying the ground work and hinting at this since chapter one. PTSD has seventeen symptoms, most shown in this fic. I think, as well, it is important to remember she is only Sixteen, nearly seventeen, and while she has plenty of life experiences for war and battle, she has very little of family, relationships and stability. I really wanted to show that this chapter. I also believe Viserys, living the sort of life he has, always on the run since boyhood, has some form of PTSD or an anger/anxiety disorder from it. I also think this adds depth to his character, explaining why he's so quick to temper and why he loses his temper so quickly and irrefutably. I think this is why I had Viserys and Haraella click together from the get go basically, as they see the same struggle in one another. I also think, having them this way, will add more depth to their characters in the long run, as we watch them heal and grow against their own odds. After all, the character entering the story should never be the one we see leaving it, and I love a good bit of character growth!

 **3\. NUMEROLOGY!** So, we went into it a bit in this chapter, mainly three's. If you compare both J.K and George's work, they both have hints of numerology hidden in their work. Namely in the numbers 3 and 7. E.I Seven gods in the faith of the seven, and seven Horcruxes for Tom Riddle. I like this theme and decided to incorporate it and explore it in this fic.

I think that is all I have to say for this chapter. **I have not even touched the next chapter yet, no words typed up, so the next update might take a little while longer, likely a week or two.** The wait might be shorter, when my muse is struck, there's no stopping her lol. Just, don't expect an update in the next three days.

 _ **Thank you all!**_ Your reviews really do keep me coming back to this fic, tweaking this, pondering that, and overall, really enjoying writing this up. (Honestly, I'm having real fun with this fic).

As always, have a thought? Have a question? Have a spare moment? Drop it all in a review! And until next time, stay beautiful! _~AlwaysEatTheRude21_


	8. Amber: Part One

**IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ:** Firstly, please go and check out the Authors note at the bottom, it has some important information and a big change to this fic. So… I may have gone and broken my own rule. I know, poor taste lol. However, this two-part chapter is going to be the only Haraella P.O.V in this fic. I've done this so we can get some grounding in what's going on inside of her head, get a feel of her properly, and because with the way this chapter went, it was best to tell it from her P.O.V. It just felt more authentic. Furthermore, I know this was supposed to be the WESTEROS chapter, and I know a lot of you are looking forward to that chapter, but, having written the two up, this one works so much better going before it. This chapter did get away with me, it became a huge 15k word count, so I had to split this into two parts. This is part one, and the next part, part 2, will be posted tomorrow or Friday (Likely the latter), as it's already been written up and polished! After that, hopefully around Monday-Wednesday next week, I'll be posting the next chapter, where we finally get a glimpse of Westeros, the Baratheon's, Dorne, and everybody's favourite… The Starks! (I am also hoping this makes up for the monstrous wait I have put you guys through!) That being said, read on and enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter Mix-tape:**

 **Beth Crowley: Monster**

 **Fallout Boy: Just One Yesterday**

 **Jaymes Young: I'll Be Good**

* * *

 **Haraella's P.O.V**

It was odd, this place. Haraella didn't know how she had came to be here, neither could she tell you how _long_ she had been there, only that she was, somehow… Here? There? In a… Place, and she didn't know whether she was dreaming or not. Did it have to be either? Perhaps it was both. Dreams could be real, in a sense. And this felt _real._ That had to count for something, right? She was poignantly aware of her heartbeat hammering against her ribs, like a war drum thrumming. She could feel the sweat trickling down her back, making her tunic sticky, tight, restrictive. She felt the hot blow of breath seizing her chest, fast, in and out, jagged like a broken sword. She felt heavy and solid, muscles tense and joints locking, and there was a tickling numbness in her fingers, as if her left hand had been dunked in a bucket of ice for twenty minutes. Flicking her tongue across the back of her bottom teeth, she could still feel the fleshy mandrake leaf she had placed under her tongue a month past. Good. Yes. _She_ felt very much real, but the world around her reeked of magic and dreams.

She was back in those Merlin-forsaken woods. The ones she always felt enclosing her in, creeping like vines, wrapping around her, strangling her. In truth, she didn't think she had ever left these woods. Not really. Her body may have walked away, but her mind? Her soul? They had never left. Ensnared in bark and sap, preserved and entombed in cracked amber. It was dark here, wedged in night, as it always was when she remembered this place. She saw these murky woods when she closed her eyes, praying for rest and slumber, only to see these grim giant trees baring down shadows, so thick they were like oil spills, that threatened to eat her whole in one sweeping bite. Sometimes the shadows had voices. Sometimes, they wailed and screamed and shouted. Sometimes, they sounded like her mother, her father, James, Sirius, Dobby, Remus. Worst of all, sometimes the shadows sounded like her, desperate and howling, begging for it all to end, to let her rest. It still smelled of moss and dew, but with a slight note of rot dancing in the air, sweet and stomach churning.

She had died here once upon a midnight dreary. Right on the very spot she was standing. Exactly as she was standing now. Limp. Resolved. She had been alone, scared, and yet, peaceful. It was the end. She could rest. The fight was over. And with a taunt from _him_ , a flash of emerald, Merlin had put a full stop to her sad little tale. She remembered the last thing she saw, as her body fell to the ground at Voldemort's feet. She remembered the raven, high in a branch, its caw as it took flight on onyx wings, autumn leaves falling to the grass from the beat of air. She remembered thinking, wondering, if it was taking her soul with it, off to the great beyond, and then she thought no more, felt no more, saw no more. Some bastard must have shot the poor bird down, because, evidently, her soul stayed right here, in these fuckin' woods. Bloody god, if such a being existed, didn't let her rest. No, the big man from upstairs had decided she needed a sequel, and pop she came back, another Times best seller on their book list from a beloved author.

Some days, if she was ever going to be completely truthful, she really did wish she had died and stayed dead. That was the natural order of things. That's how life went. You were born, you lived, you died. That's what made life special. There were no second chances. When something ended, it _ended._ Yet, here she was, still breathing, still hurting, and she couldn't help but feel like she no long fit into the usual order of things. She was no longer _natural._ She really did wish that raven had taken her soul into the sky. She really did wish, for once, she could have rested. She wouldn't call it suicidal, not outrightly, she was only tired. Tired and unnatural and trapped. Bone achingly, eye stingingly exhausted. The wind, something that didn't feel neither hot nor chilly, breezed through the small clearing of her grave-site and with it, _he_ came.

"You're dead."

Her voice was something else, high and wining, like a kicked mutt. It was an accusation. It was a threat. It was a plea given by a small child. A child she swore she no longer was, a child she never would be again. It was every beg and grief and still, only a statement. Haraella never knew two words could take so many faces until then. Fear. Sorrow. Anger. Joy. Heartbreak. Disdain. In that moment, she wore them all.

Tom Riddle only smiled at her, a slick thing of sheen, shards and shattered things. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his pressed suit trousers, he studied her coolly, shrewdly, distantly. He looked human this time, devastatingly, stunningly human. That was the foulest thing about Tom. His absolute beauty, for there were no other word to describe him, all others ill fitting, hid the putrefaction and toxic and vulgar things inside. You know what they say, the best gifts come in shiny wrappings… But so does poison.

"I never die."

But his voice was exactly as she remembered from this forest, right as he shouted the killing curse. Compelling, coiled, hissing like a viper's venom. _Victorious_. His eyes never left her, they never did. He was dead and still, his emotionless, red eyes still found her. They would _always_ find her. She knew that now. Wherever she was, Tom would see her. Haraella's hands clenched at her side, and she refused, absolutely refused, to admit that they were shaking. Violently. She thought she heard her mother's voice in the back of her mind… _These violent delights have violent ends._ Or was it Hermione? No, Luna? Parvati? It didn't matter, not when she was faced with Tom's ruby gaze. She couldn't lose face, not in front of this creature. You could never give Tom any room, not even an inch. He would take it, use it, invade like a virus, press in and conquer and rape and take and take and take-

"I-… I was there. I saw you. Your body hit the floor, eyes staring to the sky. You died like a human. Not magic. Not a god. No matter what you claimed to be, what you thought you were, you were just like the rest of us in the end. A frigid, bloating corpse. _Human._ You died and you can't be here and-"

Her words rambled and bled together like a bubbling brook. Tom did what he did best. He seized.

"But I am. I always will be."

 _I'll always be with you._ That was what he meant. Something broke within her, cresting out of her chest like a cracked whimper. It sounded like a ship beaching itself, careening onto rock and cliff, smashing. Facing Tom, hearing her own worst fears spoken, back under his damned, abhorrent eyes, she was a child again. The child who was always scared. The child who hid in her cupboard like a good pet. The child who had no family. No love. Weak and alone. Abused and loathed. Forgotten.

"No, no, no, no…"

He _couldn't_ be here. He _was_ dead. She _killed_ him. Yet, here he was, and she was nothing but a skinny, knobbly kneed kid with nothing to lose and nothing to gain again. The frail child with purple bruises on her neck and arms, cowering from Vernon's red face and Dudley's insults. The little kid scurrying around the house, in the dead of night, eating the half rancid leftovers from the bottom of the kitchen bin because her aunt forgot to feed her, or she had been left forgotten in her cupboard for time uncountable to such a young mind, and her stomach would knot itself into tight balls of squirming pain. The terrified child standing on the staircase with the philosophers stone cutting into her palm, staring down at the thing that had taken her parents, taken everything from her before it was ever really hers. Starving. She had always been starving as a child. For praise. Affection. Food. Love. Touch that wasn't shaped into fists. Maybe she was still starving. She was trembling now, like a violin string bowed too long, vibrating. Then Tom was in front of her within a blink, assaulting, pressing, _taking_. This close, he smelled of glass, cold and smooth, with something bitter at the edges like burnt coffee. It stung just as much as aunt Petunia's bleach baths.

"Because you live."

The string snapped.

"No! You can't be here! I killed-… I…I…"

He slunk closer, face inching towards her, circling, winding, around and around as he slithered about her, step by menacing step. The wind blew and she thought she heard voices, thousands of voices, murmuring, tittering, lapping over one another until it sounded like a crash of a wave on a craggy rock shore. Maybe it could join her wrecked ship. Perhaps they could all build a graveyard, right here, in her own mausoleum of moss, oak wood and amber leaves.

"I'm inside you Haraella. I always will be. I'm your shadow. I lurk in your memories. I'm the face of your nightmares. I'm your shaking hand and quaking breaths hidden by night. You can't drown me out any longer."

 _Lies._ She had gotten rid of him. Purged him from her system like draining a wound, lancing and letting the puss dribble out. It had been painful, raw, and she had been lost to delirium as she had done it, but she bloody well did. Like an infection, she had burned his god-damned Horcrux right out of her with sheer will and fever. She was no longer _his_ Horcrux. There wasn't anything remotely his left inside her. No. She _wasn't_ a Horcrux. She wasn't. She wasn't… He stopped behind her, icy breath ghosting along the back of her neck as his arm looped around, frosty hand coming to a rest on her chest, right over her stuttering heart that felt like it was minutes from giving out. She couldn't even move.

"As long as your heart beats, I live in you. In your memories. In your dreams. In your fears. I. Live. In. You. Right here, where it matters most, and I always will."

Haraella's eyes scrunched shut forcefully, so tight she was beginning to see white spots. A solar system of fear and anguish, all for only her to see. Her face crunched, imploded, like a dying star going super-nova, and her shoulders quaked as she fought not to sob. He was right… He was right. No matter what she did, no matter where she went, no matter how hard she tried, he was and always would be there, in the back of her mind, in the stutter of her heart, in the jolt of breath when she awoke from a nightmare. Haunting, waiting, salivating. He used to be a part of her after all, a bit of his soul was fused into her, for so long, so very long, that even now, with that bit chipped away and gone, its stain would forever blacken her own soul.

"Please… No… Stop…"

Tom's hand dropped and he tutted as if she was a toddler caught with her hand in the bread bin.

"Don't beg now. I wouldn't."

Haraella violently shook her head.

"I am _not_ you."

She wasn't. Really, she wasn't. No, she wasn't… Was she? Really, where did Tom end and where did she begin? He had been there with her for her entire life, in some form or another. In Vernon's fists. In peoples taunts. In death. In her dreams. In a sick, very fuckin' sick way, she had needed him. Breathed him. Lived him. He was her and she was him, two faces of the same coin. Yin and yang. Sky and earth. Fire and water. What did you have when one was taken away? No yang. No earth. No water. No _life_. Tom chuckled and it was a dead noise, the sound of rattling bones and dry leaves. Was the raven going to make the journey this time?

"But you are. Don't you see? You fought so hard and long, so scared, so terrified of death. You resurrected yourself just as I had. You killed me so you could live. And here you are, worlds away from home, running. Always running."

Her throat clamped and an errant tear dropped from her lashes as her eyes finally opened, blinking rapidly to try and stop the world around her from spinning off its axis. Perhaps it already had.

"I-…I-…"

Tom began circling again, swift and lithe. Prowling.

"It was easy, wasn't it? Getting on that dragon's back and taking to the sky? You turned your back on everyone and everything. Hermione. Ron. Luna. Neville. You never even said goodbye. You couldn't, could you? How could you look them in the eye again when every time you looked in the mirror, it was _my_ face staring back? You hate them, don't you? Just a little? They forced you to fight. They _let_ you die."

Did she hate them? Maybe a little bit. Perhaps she did just as twilight settled or dawn broke, or when she was just about to run, or sleep, when she crossed through a doorway, halfway before sitting, just before her feet left the ground, between the beats of her heart or intake of a breath. It was always in the little moments before something, trapped in a place of in-between-ness. Neither here nor there. It was gone before it was ever really there. Like Tom. Like her. But it _was_ there. Sometimes, in those moments, she wished it was Hermione's parents who were murdered. Sometimes, she wished it was Ron's godfather slain. Sometimes she wished it was Neville who had to take that long, winding walk to his own death with his head held high because, well, what else was there to do but die?

Sometimes, she wanted them all to _burn_ , like she had burned for them. Sometimes, she wanted the whole of wizarding Britain cindering to ash. And sometimes… Sometimes… Sometimes she wanted Tom back because Tom made sense, Tom _knew_ her, Tom _understood_ like no one else could or ever would, because he was her and she was him, and she was bloody fucked in the head and sick and despicable, just as he was, in those moments for even a second wanting such a thing. But it never stopped her wanting it in those snaps of in-between-ness.

"Do you remember? How cold it all was? The darkness? Numb. Floating and nothing. Caught and hooked. Not quite here, not quite there. Less than alive. Less than dead. Less than human. You can't escape that feeling of death. You feel it breathing down your neck. Close, so close… It's coming, Targaryen. It's going to reap all you hold dear."

Tears flowed freely now, gliding to the song of half corked sobs. She remembered telling her friends the story of the white station, the pleasant toot of the Hogwarts express, sitting on a bench, talking to Dumbledore. But that's all she did, tell a _story._ It was a pretty tale, an afterlife of pureness and innocence, glistening cleanly, untouched by life's dirt. They gobbled it up and never questioned. Not once. The truth of it was left to fester in the pit of Haraella's stomach, never to see the light of day.

 _There had been nothing._

Having picked up the resurrection stone, having seen her godfather, Remus, her parents, she had thought she would see them again on the other side. Just a quick shot and she could be with everyone she loved. It had given her comfort and strength, enough courage to go and walk to her death. But then she had died and there had been _nothing_. No station. No family. No Dumbledore. Just an empty, vast void. There was no up or down there. No light or darkness. No feeling. No emotion. Just existing, there but not there, just gloom and frost. That was her truth. The thing that haunted her. There was _nothing_. Everything was for nothing. All you did, all you said, all you fought for meant nothing because when the end came, as endings always did, there was only _nothing._ Tom stopped in front of her again, head cocking to the side.

"Even here, you are still running. You thirst for the fight just so you won't have to feel that emptiness again. You've killed again. Beheaded and exiled. You plan to go to war. Do you really think your doing this for family? For love? Don't make me laugh, Targaryen. You pick a war with this Baratheon just as I picked a war with the mudbloods, to keep that emptiness at bay because fighting, war, is the only thing that stops your blood from freezing in your veins."

A piercing intake of breath and she remembered. Daenerys. Viserys. Aegon. The Baratheon. How could she forget? Where were they? Hadn't she been with them? When? In this place, like the void, it was all muddled and jumbled, like she was a shaken, upside down snow globe, and, really, it was hard to hold on to anything. But hold she did. She pictured Viserys, standing by the balcony of his chambers, Essos sun melting his hair to mercury. Silver had never shined as dazzlingly as it had then, and the glint of it, the memory of the glint, cleared her eyes and mind better than any splash of cold water. She remembered how he had glanced over his shoulder, the proud and strong curve of his chin and cheek, having felt her walking towards him. She remembered that half-smile, not fully formed, Viserys never really smiled, and she held it there, in her mind, on her eyes, in her heart and she held on for dear life. She was half petrified she would somehow forget again.

"They're my family. I'm protecting them. I have to fight to-"

"You can't lie to me like you lie to yourself. The little girl who's always running. Running from your cupboard. Running from the beatings. Running from the taunts and bruises. Running from death. Running from Britain to escape the torment and memories. Aren't you tired of running?"

She remembered the little corner upturn, the slightest hint of a dimple right by Viserys top lip, the way the sun made his violet eyes look like dusk, her favourite time of day.

"My family needs me-"

Tom almost seemed hectic then as he cut her off again, frantic, as if he was losing power. No. Control. He was losing control of _her._ She held tighter to the memory, wrapping it around her, breathing it in, feeling it... _Living_ it.

"But you run from them too! You keep them away, lock them in rooms, paint a mask on so they won't see under your broken, shattered visage! Do they know about your nightmares? The dank, dark ghosts that nip at your heels every time you close your eyes? Do they know you haven't slept in a week? No. You can't tell them. They won't understand. You don't want them as tainted and decrepit as you. So, you hide. You _run._ If you get them to focus on the Baratheon, they won't see the demon they have clutched in their nest wearing a human face. They won't see what you know deep down inside…"

She remembered how that small slither of a smile had grew when Viserys saw it was her, stretching like a lazy, fat cat perched on a kitchen window sill, over and up like the rising sun after a long, dark, cold night. That was the first time she had ever saw him smile truly, wholly, unrestrainedly. And by Merlin, he had such a beautiful smile. It softened his face, just a bit, made his eyes sparkle, his teeth flash and he looked so alive and free. She loved that smile. Now it was Tom's turn to break as his control crumbled in the shine of Viserys's smile.

"That you're less! Less than alive! Less than dead! Less than human… Me! You're my legacy! My shadow! You _are_ me! Look at me! Look at me!"

She _loved_ Viserys's smile. _Loved._ This wasn't Tom Riddle. It wasn't even his ghost. This… Thing, was her fear, brought to flesh in the only face she would ever give her fear. Tom. Yes, she feared she hated her friends, and perhaps she did a little, but never enough to wish them harm, not really. Yes, every god-damned-day she was terrified that she was exactly like Tom, that all it would take was one little push and he would be back but wearing her skin like a wolf in wool. She was scared that sometimes, just some, that she missed him. Only because with Tom, things made sense, it was a battle of survival, there were rules there she understood. But there was one reason, just one, why she would never, ever, become Tom. She loved Viserys's smile _._

 _She Loved._

"That's where you're wrong Tom."

Tom could never love. It wasn't in him. But she _did_. She feared that void and nothingness so because she loved what was here, in life. She loved Ron and Hermione. She loved dusk. She loved peppermint tea and cookies that had gone half stale, so they were soft. She loved how it felt to fly, the feeling of a dragon's wings beating between her thighs, the wind in her white hair, blowing it around her face until it looked like she was in a snow storm. She loved Vaenora and her ill-temperament, so much so, Haraella had turned her back on everything she knew so Vaenora might live. She loved Daenerys's big tender eyes, never guarded, never hardened. She loved the moments she could get Viserys to let go, to smile, to live in the here and now and simply be happy. Dammit, she loved the way Aegon, even thrown into a tower by her own hand, had never given up or backed down. She loved it all.

"I'm nothing like you."

Tom shook his head and snarled.

"I've never been anything like you. For one simple reason. Love. I see that now."

It was if she had given him a blow as he stumbled back, away, recoiling from the very word.

"Pathetic lies-"

Haraella advanced on a quickly retreating Tom.

"When I died and got back up, it wasn't because I was scared to face death, to run from that nothingness. I've faced it all my life. _I started out as nothing_. Just a thing kept in a cupboard, locked away. I wasn't even thought of as human back then. Barely even a creature. I got back up because I loved my friends enough to heave my corpse off the floor and make one last stand. For them. I sacrificed myself not in fear of the war continuing and I wanted an out, but because I loved the world hard enough that, even if I was not there to see it, I wished for it to shine on without me. I didn't run away, I left because I loved Vaenora enough to leave everything I knew behind, just so she may see one more sunrise with the wind beneath her wings. I fought and bled not in fear of survival, cutting off bits of myself so the majority could live, but because life…"

And for the first time in a long, long, long time, just like her memory of Viserys's smile, Haraella smiled brightly, truly, unrestrainedly.

"Life is beautiful. It's the sunbeam that gently wakes and warms you up after a long nights rest. It's the feeling of putting your feet up after hours of walking. It's the soft catching snowflakes that melt on eyelashes. It's the fast beat of your heart when the fight is reaching its climax and it's a flip of a coin on who's going to win. It's the rush of breath when you fall. It's Daenerys gentle hand on my shoulder, so light and pure, never wanting anything in return. It's Viserys's smile, the curve of his lips that hardly ever get to come out because life has beaten him down. It's the innocent glint in Aegon's eye, bright and vivacious, untouched by war or hardship. Its… Love."

Her fear began to twist, Tom's face melting away, blurring, quivering as the thing fell to its knees. The woods around them began to lighten, as if dawn was breaking, the sun barely kissing the horizon hello. There were no more wailing shadows. No more imposing trees. No more dead leaves. In the distance, she heard a caw and saw the raven take flight. This time, he rose into the sky, he made it into the puff of clouds, free and, with it, she was too. These woods were no longer her gravestone. They were _just_ woods.

"Love has always been my power, like it was my mothers. You're dirty, vile soul couldn't take that from me then, and my fear won't take it away from me now."

One step closer.

"When you look and see, you _hate._ You hate everything so much that you wished to destroy all you touched. When I look and see, I wonder and love. You fought to destroy and burn. I fight to protect and create. As long as that stays true, I will never be anything like Tom. I'll fight this Baratheon because Daenerys deserves a safe home, off the streets, away from things that will break her gentle nature because the world needs gentleness and forgiveness. It needs people Daenerys, not me or you. I will fight the whole of fuckin' Westeros for Aegon because it's in him, his innocence, his optimism for this naive, wondrous world he envisions that we might find a better future. I want the world to be what he already thinks it is, true and blameless and untainted. And I will fight and claw and fuckin' burn this world to the ground for Viserys! If only, for once, the world would be what he thinks it _isn't_. So he may smile freely, just once. So he won't expect a dagger at his back every Merlin damned day. So _he_ can stop running. And I will find this other Targaryen, I swear by every god ever conceived by a human mind, because no one, _no one_ , deserves to be in this world alone! That is who I am!"

The thing wailed and squirmed on the floor, leaking and bubbling black oil with no shine. Haraella crouched next to it, almost sorry.

"I think I may have forgotten who I was. I lost myself to Tom's memory. To my fear. But I know now…"

Haraella stood once more and turned her gaze to the lightening sky. She could still hear the whispers, the thousand voices hushed but still there, mimicking the wind, and she knew, deep down, the thing writhing in front of her wasn't the enemy. No. This was her fear brought to face her, trap her, scare her. Something, or someone, had wrought it out, invaded her mind, took her deepest secrets and created… This thing. Instead, they had only made her stronger.

"I am Haraella Targaryen! You can't scare me! I was birthed from the love my mother had as she threw herself in front of me to take Voldemort's killing blow! I was forged by the fire of my father, and his and his before his, burning hot and bright! I am James's legacy; his hope of a better future lives on through my heartbeat! No one can take that away from me! Especially something too scared to come out and face me!"

The thing at her feet gave one last lurch towards her before it popped like a bloody, fleshy balloon. The woods shrank back, vanishing and soon, Haraella found herself in a small chamber. It was a dank room, lofty, made of grey brick and circular. Around the curving wall were doors, heavy and stout looking, four, five, six, seven, around and around. Haraella snarled.

"You think you can hide? Kidnap me and magic my fears to life to stop me? What do you want? Come out and face me! I fuckin' dare you!"

The whispers died to deafening silence.

"Oh… Oh, that's it, is it? This is the game you're playing? Fine! I'll come and find you then!"

Haraella stormed to the closest door, wrapped her hand around the iron handle and gave an almighty yank. Blinding blistering light swamped her.

* * *

 **Haraella's P.O.V**

It was odd, this place. Haraella didn't know how she came to be here, neither could she tell you how long she had been there, only that she was, somehow… Here? There? In a… Place, and she didn't know whether she was dreaming or not. Did it have to be either? Perhaps it was both. Dreams could be real, in a sense. And this _felt_ real. That had to count for something, right? She was poignantly aware of her heartbeat hammering against her ribs, like a war drum thrumming. She could feel the sweat trickling down her back, making her tunic sticky, tight, restrictive. She felt the hot blow of breath seizing her chest, fast, in and out, jagged like a broken sword. She felt heavy and solid, muscles tense and joints locking, and there was a stinging in her hand, as if her left hand had been shoved into a barrel of needles. Flicking her tongue across the back of her bottom teeth, she could still feel the fleshy mandrake leaf she had placed under her tongue a month past. Good. Yes. _She_ felt very much real, but the world around her reeked of magic and dreams.

Yet, it sure looked like Grimmauld place. The large stairs from the foyer running up to the landing upstairs were still polished mahogany, glistening darkly. The trail of paintings lining the wall were pictures she had seen a thousand times, encased in golden gilded frames. The smell of age, damp and dust still assaulted her nose, but there was something… Wrong. Some of the paintings were empty, or simply brushes of colours, as if they were struggling to take form, still moving, besieged to life. Paintings she had never bothered to memorize. She was also sure there should have been a vase somewhere, it was Sirius's favourite, but as she could never remember exactly where it went in the hall, it was completely missing here. Worst of all, there was a cacophony of whispers fluttering around her, too low and deep to make out, coming from the paintings? Upstairs? An open window allowing the wind in? Still, her unease at the slightly wrong environment, the whispers that could be wind, a missing rug or a misplaced step, was quickly overlooked when she heard steps come thudding down the staircase, when she saw shiny dragon scale boots, wrinkled trousers and a silk and velvet waistcoat.

He came to the bottom foyer with a swagger in his step and a tumbler of fire-whiskey in his hand. Her heart stopped completely when his silver eyes locked onto hers, securing her, pinning her and fuck, she nearly fell to her knees when, upon seeing her, that devil-may-care smile bloomed to life on his thin handsome face.

"About time! Come on little komodo, or we're going to be late to Molly's Christmas dinner and I am not in the mood to be chewed out twice in one day. Remus's is already being a moody bugger over the mess we made in the potions lab last night."

Sirius Black was before her. Right there. In front of her. Exactly as she remembered him. Oh, Merlin, there was his stubbled cheek from a night out, when he couldn't be bothered to shave due to the hangover pinching at his temples. There was his signet ring, right where it belonged, on his right hands thumb, not threaded through a cord and fastened to her neck, where she kept it on her always. There was his top right fang, a touch pointier than his left. And that was his voice, sunny, breezy, a tad husky from recently hiding in a cupboard to puff off his pipe. Blimey, how Remus had hated him smoking! She would find Sirius sometimes, half leaning out a window, pipe perched between grinning lips, winking at her as she promised not to tell Remus. He would dash the ash out his pipe, close the window with a muted thud, and jostle her hair with a warm hand. He had always been so warm. Boiling nearly. She had adored that about him. Her godfather, the only real parental figure, sans Remus, she had ever had. Like his name-sake, he had been as warm as a shining star.

Out of her control, she ran. She ran and she threw herself at him, and he caught her with a chuckled grunt as she knocked the wind right out of him, and she clawed and scrambled and locked and pressed him to her so tightly, she half thought he might sink into her, become a part of her, never to leave again. Mind foggy, Haraella couldn't rightly remember how he had gone, or where he had gone, or even how long Sirius had been gone for, but she knew he _had_ been gone, and she knew how much, how deeply, how fuckin' irreversibly that had hurt. Not again. Never again. Idly, she realised the high noise in the air, sounding like a bark, was her, laughing, crying, somewhere between. Both. _Never again._

"Are you real?"

It was a stupid question, something that had popped forth without her meaning it to. Of course he was real. He was here, wasn't he? Why wouldn't he be real and here? Something nibbled in her intestines, something tugged at her heart, but she stubbornly pushed it down and away. No. Doubt had no place here. Sirius was real. He was here. Nothing else mattered. Sirius laughed too, more shocked than anything, as he balanced the glass of whiskey on the banister of the stairs, and wrapped his arms around her, squeezing back.

"I feel real. I sure do bloody have a hangover like a real boy. Does that count? Go on, touch… Isn't that enough?"

He smelled exactly as she remembered. Like spiced tobacco, motor oil and leather. God, she wanted to soak in that smell for days, weeks, forever. She had missed it as almost as much as she had missed him. It was funny, really, because she couldn't stand the smell, it irritated her, made her sneeze repeatedly, but by Merlin, she loved it because she loved Sirius and it reminder her of him, of _home_. Because, right down at the core, that was the truth. Sirius was her home. Not Grimmauld place. Not Privet Drive. Not Godric's Hollow. Not Hogwarts. Just Sirius. Wherever he was, if she was with him, she was _home._ Why did that hurt so much? Why was her gut sinking? No. Everything was fine. Everything was great! Sirius was here. She was home.

"See, I'm real, I'm right here. I've always been here. Isn't this what you wanted?"

More than anything. She would trade anything, anything at all, just to have Sirius. Even for one day, she would give all her tomorrows. Money, food, dammit, she would never fly again if only she could have Sirius by her side. They could have her magic, have Britain, have all she had, her mind, her memories, but just let her have Sirius. They could take her tears, take her laughter, take her joy, just… Please, let her keep him there, right there, with her. Don't let him leave again. They could take the war, take the throne, have Daenerys-…

No. No they couldn't have it all. Viserys. Daenerys. Aegon. They needed her. They were in danger. Grave fuckin' danger. If she was here, the Baratheon could get to them, hurt them, kill them, all the while she was standing her smiling like a bloody coward. More upsettingly, if she was here, caught… Were they too? Had whatever taken her taken them as well? Were they being hurt, tortured, right now, as she stood here, doing nothing? Suddenly, she wrenched herself away from Sirius, but kept her hand on his arm, strong, insistent. N _ever again._ She began tugging him, yanking him, wordlessly begging him to follow her back through Grimmauld place's front door. If she got him through that door, everything would be okay. She knew it would be. It had to be. Sirius refused to move.

"My family… Daenerys, Viserys, Aegon, they're in danger. I have to get to them. Oh, Sirius, you're going to love them! You'll adore Daenerys, she's the best of people all wrapped in one. You'll like Aegon, he puts his foot in his mouth all the time, speaks before he thinks, that one, just like you. And you can drink whiskey with Viserys, play chess next to the fireplace like we did all the time, he's a great player and… Sirius, are you listening? I have family! Real family! Blood! Out there, but they're in trouble. We need to go. Sirius? Sirius! Please, come with me? Just follow me. Come on. Sirius, move! Come on, move! Please! Please!"

She had him, right here, in her hand! She couldn't let him slip through her fingers again. She had failed him once, and in some jumbled way, her mind so incredibly foggy, she knew it had been her fault he had left, was gone, she couldn't go through that again. She couldn't! No, she could… She could make him leave this room… Yes… Yes, he could leave here, with her… He could be with her again, together… It wouldn't be her fault he was gone if he came back… She could make it right… He could smile again, laugh again, hide and smoke his pipe again and ruffle her hair and… Sirius heaved his arm free from her straining, desperate grasp, and waved his hand, as if he caught a bad smell under his aristocratic nose.

"They'll be fine. Leave them to it."

He threw it out so carelessly, mindlessly, as if speaking about putting the rubbish bins out. Haraella's Sirius was carefree, even after years of Azkaban, not _uncaring._ Her hand flopped to her side, swinging like a pendulum, tick, tock, tick. The clock died and time froze. She remembered Tom now. She remembered _everything._ She remembered her fear and here, right there, her heart broke into a million shards of glass, embedding and cutting deep into her sternum, her soul. She remembered…

 _Sirius was dead._

He was gone because he was dead. He hadn't slipped out of her fingers in the metaphorical sense, but literally, right through them as she dashed for him, fingertip brushing fingertip before the Veil enfolded around him and carried him off. He hadn't been in this room, waiting for her… He had been dead.

"My Sirius would have never said that."

Sirius picked up his tumbler from the banister, took a hearty swig and winked at her.

"No, you're Sirius would tell you there's no way I can escape this room, because this version of me only exists in this room. He would tell you I am only a memory made real, and not even that. He would tell you to run. Get out of here as fast as you can. He would tell you, right now, to look down."

Ensnared between Sirius and the door backward, Haraella frowned. Sluggishly, she lifted her left hand, the one that was stinging and bit into the soft flesh of her cheek. Her hand was blackening, cracking, skin grey and lifeless, cold, threads of dead veins withering up her fingers like a spiders web.

"They're… The wind… The voices… They're…"

Sirius raised his glass and toasted her before downing the last drops of amber liquid. Her hope emptied with the glass.

"Draining you? Eating your magic? Devouring your essence bit by bit? Oh yes, and they haven't had such a delightful meal in _such_ a long time. You're making them stronger than they could ever be. Allowing them to do things they could only dream of before. Clocks are ticking my little komodo dragon. Get out while you still can, before it's too late."

She couldn't take looking at her hand anymore as she shoved it down at her side.

"But your made from their magic, their spell, why are you helping me?"

Neither could she take looking at this Sirius who wasn't Sirius, as she let her gaze fall to the stairs behind his head, unfocused.

"Ah, but they've never met me, have they? No. They only have your memories as a base."

Whatever had taken her was using her mind against her. Ruffling through her memories, conjuring things to keep her here, stall her, while slowly, gradually, they sucked the very life from her marrow and grew stronger as she weakened. Her magic was her, in every cell and hair and fingernail. She couldn't survive without her magic, as a muggle couldn't survive without their heart. Tom had been her fear, fear she had overcome in love for her family, fear that hadn't frozen her, so here Sirius was, the embodiment of her guilt, her regrets, her fuckin' remorse. However, those bastards, the things doing this, hadn't equated Sirius into the equation. Even in her memories, even as something made from herself and her remorse, he was still looking out for her, guarding her, protecting her.

"You're not Sirius. You're not even his ghost. Your just what I perceived him to be, what I remember him to be. My own pain reflected back from a dirty mirror."

She looked at him then, really looked, and she wasn't sure she could turn her back on him, leave him here, in this room. Magic or not. She would take any version of Sirius, any, even that made from her own guilt, because even having just a shadow of him at her side was better than living and breathing in a world where he didn't. Sirius smirked and ran a hand through his hair.

"But I do make a devilishly handsome memory, don't I?"

Here it was. The problem. There were only two endings to this. Either she stayed, lost in her memories, trapped in her past, and she had Sirius and Remus and Tonks and all those she had lost, or she found the door, turned her back on Sirius, and go to her family, those still breathing and living and waiting for her in the real world. Either way, her heart was going to break. Even as she knew she should try and leave, she knew it, oh she knew it, to move away, she couldn't… She couldn't…

"I'm so sorry Sirius. I'm sorry I fell for Tom's trick. I'm sorry I wasn't fast enough… I tried to reach… I tried…"

When she couldn't move, she could barely breathe right, her voice cracking and breaking, Sirius came to her, as he always did. Sirius had always come to her when she needed him. He stopped before her, close enough that she could smell him all over again and rested his hand on the curve of her cheek. His hand was cold and stiff and dead… Like he.

"Oh, dear girl, nonsense. Haraella, look at me. Look at me, Haraella."

She did unhurriedly, reservedly. When would she get to look at his face again? When would he be this close? Never. He was gone. Away. A thousand dreams lamented, and a thousand more to go.

"Let me go. You _have_ to let me go. I'm _gone._ Don't make my memory haunt you. I don't want to cause you pain. Never pain. Look back on the good ol' days once in a while, years apart, and when you think of me, smile. Don't cry. I never wanted you to cry for me. You have to move on. Clinging to ghosts and memories will devour you as much as these things are. Please, let me go. Let the guilt go. None of this was your fault. You hear me? None of it. I don't belong in this world anymore, and you don't belong in mine. And, if I have anything to say in the matter, we won't see each other for a _very_ long time."

Her lips tasted of bitter salt water as she bit them between keen teeth, trying mercilessly to even her breathing, dry her eyes, to keep her chin up and proud. That's what Sirius would have done. Her warm, dead star.

"In Valhalla then?"

Haraella croaked. Heaven was no place for a man like Sirius. Merlin's court was too stuffy. He would have found Nirvana boring. No, when she thought of him, when she imagined where he was now, Sirius's soul, if it was to be anywhere in rest, she always thought of Valhalla. Just like she, he had found freedom denied to him by life on the wings of a raven. Tragically poetic. His thumb fondly swiped at the peak of her cheekbone.

"I'll save you a drink."

Then he stepped away, off to the side and there, behind him, stood the next door, the stairs long gone and lost.

"Now go. And remember, you have your mother's love, you have your dads soul, but that heart that beats in your chest? That's all James. He was just as much your father. Don't forget that. Especially _here_ and _now_."

Sirius was trying to tell her something, or perhaps, seen as this Sirius was made from her own mind, she was trying to tell herself something. Either way, Haraella couldn't quite grasp what it was. She reached for the handle, palmed the cool metal, and still she stalled. Just as she was about to turn back around, stay, she thought of Daenerys. Daenerys had lost her father, mother, brother. Still, she strode forward. She carried on. She didn't hold back. Haraella's aunt was stronger than any of them, stronger than Viserys, stronger than Aegon, stronger than Haraella because she lost and she still managed to not let that loss hold her back, entrap her, cage her, numb and hurt her. Haraella's hand tightened on the handle.

She chose her family over memories.

With a twist, the room was flooded with blazing white light, Sirius's laughter drifting away with the hall of Grimmauld place.

 _That's my girl, give them hell!_

* * *

 **IN PART 2 :** Haraella faces some real uncomfortable truths, owns up to some hidden desires (a tiny… TINY bit of lemony goodness for a taste of what is to come later), the secret of the mandrake leaf is revealed, and the house of the undying realizes you really shouldn't piss off, or try to drain, a dragon…

 **IMPORTANT:** Right, I'll get straight to the point. I am considering messing around with the pairings (just a bit!). I want to do this for multiple reasons, adjustments I've made to the over-all arching plot, how the characters have developed, and because, some shit just fits better than others. That being said, I thought the leaving of the final decision to you guys would be the best course of action! So, here are the options:

 **Viserys/Haraella/Aegon** and Jon/Daenerys- This is what we already have in place.

OR

 **Viserys/Haraella/Jon Snow** and Aegon/Daenerys- The new choice.

Basically, I'm thinking of swapping out Aegon for Jon Snow. Why? The way I'm writing Aegon, how he's sort of taken on a life of his own (Griffy boy basically writes himself lol), I feel, fits better with Daenerys. On the other hand, how Haraella is fleshing out, I think, may fit better with Jon. Viserys stays because, well, him and Haraella are already 'connected' in a way, and it was Viserys who got me going with this fic. They both understand the stress of survival, war, being hunted and are emotionally resonant with one another. With Jon, I feel him and Haraella would connect on an experience level. They both grew up in homes where they felt like outsiders. They both struggled to find who and what they are and discovering where they came from. They both faced abuse because of what others perceived them to be, their names and attributes of birth. I don't know, I just think they would click a bit better, but I still haven't fully given up on Griffy boy XD. So, the choice is yours!

 _ **Please vote.**_ I'll be creating a poll on my homepage you can pop in and enter. PM me if you wish too, and a review with the vote is always welcome! However, this is time sensitive, because next chapter shit goes down and the pairings become concrete, so I need to know by either Thursday or Friday. At the end, I'll gather all votes from PM's, the Poll and Reviews, put 'em together and see who wins and tell you guys in the Authors note next chapter! Happy voting!

* * *

 **UPDATES, SCHEDULES AND THE LONG HIATUS! : **I'm going to be as honest with you guys as possible. I know I haven't been uploading lately, and when I have it's been sparse and jumpy, but there's been good reason. As you likely know, I suffer from epilepsy. A few months back, things became quite bad and my medicine stopped working. As a result, I was put forward for Resective surgery. It's basically where they go into the brain and cut a bit of your temporal lobe out (The part that's causing the seizures), and then bandage your poor skull up. I'll be frank, I was piss scared, lol! Still, I had it done, and yes, I think it was the most terrifying moment of my life being put under right before the operation, but the recovery period is quite long. You have to take it easy for three-four months, meaning I had to take time off from University and well, my head really wasn't in the right place (Pun intended). Plus, it messed with my memory a little bit while I've been recovering.

I would sit down and write something, and a few hours later, come back and not recognize what the hell I'd written, why I'd written it or where I was going with it. Sometimes, I'd even forget what fics I had or didn't have up. That was even if I remembered to write anything at all XD. My memory's a lot better now, but still a bit shaky. So, I'm trying to gently slide back into writing. My updates may not be fast coming for a while, but I'm getting there, and I am trying. Plus, coming back to writing is helping me feel like my old self again, which is always pleasant. Still, I wanted to clear all this up because you lovely people have been so patient, and a lot of you have been wondering if I've dropped of the map or if I was alright (Thank you so much to all those who asked!), and it didn't feel right leaving you in the dark.

So, in short, I had brain surgery that made me a little spacey and forget-y. I'm slowly coming back, and as a result, I can't promise a schedule or quick updates, but I am trying. I hope that clears things up, and please, enjoy what is to come!

As ever and always, **Thank you** to all those who followed, favourited and reviewed! They all really brightened up my days and I found myself re-going through them a lot and smiling! If you have a spare moment, drop a little review, and if your up to it, don't forget to vote! Until next time, stay beautiful! ~ _AlwaysEatTheRude21_


	9. Amber: Part Two

**Chapter Mix-Tape:**

 **Freddy Mercury: The Great Pretender.**

 **Florida Georgia Line: Simple.**

 **Imagine Dragons: I'm So Sorry**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Nine: Amber Part II.**_

 **Haraella's P.O.V**

It was odd, this place. Haraella didn't know how she had come to be here, neither could she tell you how long she had been there, only that she was, somehow… Here? There? In a… Place, and she didn't know whether she was dreaming or not. Did it have to be either? Perhaps it was both. Dreams could be real, in a sense. And this _felt_ real. That had to count for something, right? She was poignantly aware of her heartbeat hammering against her ribs, like a war drum thrumming. She could feel the sweat trickling down her back, making her tunic sticky, tight, restrictive. She felt the hot blow of breath seizing her chest, fast, in and out, jagged like a broken sword. She felt heavy and solid, muscles tense and joints locking, and there was a burning fire in left arm, as if it had been shoved right into the heart of a blazing furnace. Flicking her tongue across the back of her bottom teeth, she could still feel the fleshy mandrake leaf she had placed under her tongue a month past. Good. Yes. _She_ felt very much real, but the world around her reeked of magic and dreams.

She knew this room. Of course she did. It was a bedchamber, _her_ bedchamber, from Volantis. It was dusky, but decadently warm, lit by candles to bathe it in pleasant orange light. And when the sun set over Volantis, after a hard day's work meeting with the heads and councils of Volantis to make sure her decisions represented what the people, the _real_ people, of Volantis wanted, the white-washed walls blazed golden, rich and bright. It smelled like cinnamon and crushed spices, clove and jasmine swaying from the smoking incense, making the air dense, hot, edgy. There wasn't much here, she had never been an avid decorator. She was used to being spartan, plain, but her bed, right in the middle of the room, was her only extravagance. It was a beast of a thing, intricately carved, canopied by thin silks and chiffon. Merlin, she adored that fuckin' bed, even if she never got much sleep in it. Sometimes, she would lay upon it, draw the canopy closed, and with the golden sun filtering through the red and gold silks, she would pretend she was in the belly of Vaenora, safe, encapsulated, warm. Some nights, that's all she did. Her balcony was open, curtains billowing, letting in the balmy night breeze that, she thought, carried whispers. _Rest_. Yes, she could do with some rest. She was so very tired.

Haraella stumbled towards the bed, almost drunkenly, but cautiously stopped when she heard a husky moan break from the depths of the closed canopy. The sheer material of the bed curtains hid the people upon it, but she could see their silhouettes, their shadows, undulating, lapping and, as another groan, deeper… Male twirled towards her, something hot and heavy lodged itself in her throat. Then anger struck home. Who the hell was fuckin' in her bed? Quite literally? Marching towards the bed with weighty feet, she reached out and grasped one of the curtains and very nearly ripped it down as she wrenched it to the side. It took her a moment to process what she was seeing.

It was like a Grecian tableau, a marble effigy of desire, the rape of Persephone rendered in flesh. There was a tangle of long, pale limbs, clasping, straining, tugging. Closer. _Closer_. Entwining. Rolling like the sea, when one ebbed the other flowed. And that was her, on the bed, her on her back, arching, head rolling, pressing into the pillows and sheets, gasping and groaning in a way the real her, the one seeing this, never had. The her-on-the-bed was flushed, trembling, curling, chest heaving as someone's head worked between her trembling thighs, fingers caught in locks of hair, a breathy plea escaping flushed lips. Haraella couldn't tell where one body started, whose hand was whose, and where they ended. And she couldn't bloody look away.

The male began to work his way up, back glistening, the candles painting his sweat to gold dust, muscles rippling as he languished upwards, kissing and licking from navel to throat achingly slow. Haraella still couldn't look away, even as the rolling hips wrenched more moans from the her-that-wasn't-her's straining throat. A nimble hand worked its way to her-but-not-her's neck, tilting chin up and towards her as he nuzzled in, gasping as his hips snapped tighter, faster, stronger, driving. For a moment, Haraella thought she recognized the scar, silver and thin, cutting across his middle knuckle. But then his head turned, just a fraction, to suck and nip at the her-that-definitely-wasn't-hers Adam apple, the low light spilled onto his face like ink and Haraella caught the metallic glint of his white hair, the lilac eyes tinted dusk by candlelight.

Haraella dropped the curtain back with a sharp intake of breath, lurching away, falling right onto her arse. She scrambled further, skidding, knees weak and buckling as she tried to find balance. She managed to find some purchase on the rug, and darted for the wall, where her door should have been. It was gone. Panicked, she began edging around the walls, hands running over smooth plaster, searching for the door. She remembered now. She remembered Tom. She remembered Sirius. She remembered _everything._

"Let me out! You hear me! Let me out now! Dammit, give me Dumbledore! Bellatrix! I'll bloody take Dolohov! Just let me out now you foul bastards!"

The creaking of the bed warned her someone was moving, coming, even as she frantically beat at the wall, kicking and punching and slapping. Against her will, her head shot around, eyes wide, frozen like a deer caught in blinding headlights, watching helplessly as the canopy curtain was pulled back, the her-that-really-was-not-bloody-her gone, vanished from the bed, the man slipping through the opening, a sheet wrapped low on his hips, staring straight at her. Haraella turned right back to that wall and hit it with renewed vigour. If they wouldn't give her a bloody door, she would punch her way through if need be. Yet, her left arm was failing, faltering, the rot and death creeping up to shoulder joint now, and she could hardly gain the strength to lift the damned thing. The pounding of her fists mixed with the thrashing of her heart, which in turn mixed with the leisurely steps echoing out behind her, one by one, skulking closer. One by one, like candles going out, they stopped. First the steps, as she felt something pushing close to her back, then her fists, when that something hummed, cavernous, and her heart when she heard the voice she knew all too well.

"Isn't this what you want?"

She was going to kill them, these things playing games with her, taunting her, messing with her mind. All of them. She would _burn_ them _all_. No one would ever remember their names once she was through with them. Carve their hearts out and force the fuckers to eat it raw. A long-fingered hand skimmed up her back, fingertips trailing, and all thoughts of violent retribution fled her. It was soft, gentle, like raindrops in reverse. It trailed the curve of her spine, swept over the slope of her shoulder blade, winding around her arm, strong but supple. Haraella panicked.

"Stop it! Let me out!"

The hand tugged, as zealous and contrarily gentle as the man himself, spinning her around to face the one thing she didn't want to see. _Him._ It really was him standing before her, not a trick of the light, a momentary lapse of sanity, but him, right there, baring only a loose silk sheet. He looked like a Greek god in the shadowy light, all Apollo singing to his Daphne. Haraella backed herself into the wall, clamped her eyes shut, like a toddler who thought if they couldn't see it, the it couldn't see them. Her respite didn't last long. He took a step closer, chest nearly touching chest, and her eyes snapped open in alarm. The man tilted his head, innocently, almost patronizingly, he was always caught between amiability and viciousness after all, and his bedraggled silver curls brushed the lax muscle of his shoulder.

"But isn't this what want? You've thought about it. I know you have. You thought about it from the first time you saw me, standing underneath the Essos sun."

No. No fucking way. Nope. Hell-fuckin' no. She was _not_ doing this. This, no. Tom had been her fear, Sirius her guilt, but this? What she just saw? No. She unconditionally rejected to believe any of this, even a malformed half-forgotten remnant of it, lived within her. It couldn't. It didn't. This was just a game. The things eating her were showing her nightmares. Yes, nightmares. They had taken a familiar face, twisted it revoltingly, and left it here to unseat her, unsettle her, halt her. That was all. And they would pay for doing this-… This… _This_ to his memory. Yet, Haraella remembered. She had been hurt, bleeding, half delirious from awaking on the tacky Volantis sands, stumbling through the market place, lost and thirsty, and then she had saw him. He had been tall, proud, even dressed in faded cottons and well-worn leathers. So proud, removed, but broken in such a subtle way, in the lines of his stern mouth, the hunch of his shoulders, the paranoid dart of his eyes. _Broken like her._ The sun had dipped him in glorious gold that could not hide the shadows underneath his eyes, could not stop the savagery of his face, could not lesson the keenness of his features, and Haraella, half dead on her feet, had seen him and thought-

"You thought me beautiful."

His voice was husky, but had that familiar bite to it, sharp and acidic. Like fresh lemonade, it quenched a thirst Haraella didn't know she had. But it was wrong, _so_ wrong, and this was a game, conjured by devourers, pilfering through her thoughts, even now, reading her like a book, enchanting her insecurities and disbelief to life. She couldn't trust anything here, not this room, not the man in front of her, not herself, in truth. The hand on her bicep unhurriedly danced along the groove of her arm, up and over shoulder, fingertips gliding over collarbone, dipping down into the crudely stitched neck hem of her tunic. Haraella stumbled through her stout, fragmented rebuttal.

"That was before I knew who you were… And that's okay. I only thought you looked beautiful. You can think that about family… Can't you? Yes… Yes… That's normal… It is… It _is…_ But that… That on the bed… No… Wrong… Stop it…"

His hand fell further into the collar of her tunic, the flimsy ties easily coming undone from deft fingers. All too soon, the front flap of her tunic was slipping open, and his fingers were back on her chest, slipping over the very top swell of her surging breast, underneath the thin material of her low shift, stopping momentarily over the pounding heart housed in tender flesh. No one had ever touched her like this before, not so softly and Haraella didn't know what to do. She knew what to do when hit, she hit back with twice the force. She knew what to do when she was grabbed and squeezed, she flipped and elbowed her way to freedom. She knew what to do when strangled, bitten, clawed, cut, she knew it all, but this… This was so terrifyingly new and fresh and… She knew she should move, run, smack his hand away in disgust or punch him, anything at all, but she doesn't. He is speaking in that soothing, raspy voice of his, and like a cobra, she is entranced by the man with a flute for a voice.

"But you want it. You've dreamt it when the nightmares haven't taken you. You wake up, flustered, hot, quivering in a cold empty bed, hand inching up shift, right to the ache that burns, fingers dancing across goose-pimpled flesh. But you don't know what to do, how to slake the burn, and you only ever make it worse, an inferno that leaves you cindering, hurting, throbbing… I can show you how to…"

If asked, Haraella couldn't tell you whether it was he or she who closed the distance. Yet, she _felt_ it. His nose skimmed her cheek, dipping into her riotous hair, lips fluttering at the shell of her ear. Her breaths were coming reckless and brief now, as if her body didn't care for air no longer, not if she could have him exactly where he was. His hand delved deeper still, down the arc of her breast to settle in anticipation under its curve, leaving a path of heated flesh scorching in the wake of his touch. His other hand was not idle, it crested upon her breach covered thigh, slithering higher, achingly so, coiling around, between her clasped legs, slow, higher, closer.

"I don't… I don't…"

Was that her voice? So airy and hoarse? It didn't sound like her. She wasn't acting like herself. She didn't _feel_ like herself, in at that moment. She felt like she had shed her skin, her bones and flesh, scales falling until she was just a tightly wound pocket of energy, alive, one giant nerve, free from restraint and control. Haraella hadn't even noticed her own hands moving, up and onto his arms, before the tingling in her fingers told her they were heading towards numbness. Her fingers clenched even harder and, for a split second, even with her blunt nails, she thought she may have cut him, marked him, left a trace of herself upon his skin and that really shouldn't sound as good as it did to her. She told herself to shove him away, just push, one push. End it. Cut herself free, re-wear her body and come back from the sky. She hadn't… This… Disgusting… Despicable… sickening… Wrong. So wrong.

"You do, you just pretend you don't. You don't have to pretend here. This isn't really me, is it? It's not wrong if it isn't really me. There's no right or wrong here. Just me and you."

Haraella Targaryen, saviour of the wizarding world, master of death, rider of dragons and bringer of fire… The greatest pretender. That was what she was, that was her true title. She pretended she wasn't scared. She pretended that everything, if she tried hard enough, would turn out alright in the end. She pretended that the world could become something great and true, if but given the chance. She pretended she was a half functional human being most days. She pretended she was bloody half sane. She pretended she couldn't see ghosts everywhere she looked. She pretended that she didn't pretend, because once you started to pretend for long enough, you convinced yourself. She faked and imitated and pretended.

And by Merlin, she was fuckin' _good_ at it. People looked at her and they saw arrogance and pride instead of her fear, because if no one was going to believe her, if even she was indecisive of her decisions, every single one, at least she could pretend she believed in herself, even if she didn't. People looked at her and they saw someone who would never give in, a stubborn fool who just kept getting back up, a rock-headed, hot-tempered persistent fucker, even when, really, she just kept going because she wasn't sure what else to do, what really was right and wrong, and one day, the final blow would come and she really wouldn't be able to get back up again and, just a little bit, she wanted that day to come sooner rather than later, before people started to see what a great fuckin' pretender she was.

People looked at her and they thought she knew, oh, Haraella had a conscious, a moral compass, she had _hope_. They didn't see, day by day, that hope being chipped away, the black and white world of wrong and right bleaching itself to shades of grey that Haraella had no idea where she belonged, what she stood for, or what the hell she was doing most of the time in this grey-scale world of moral ambiguity. She was like a mindless dog chasing a car, she had no bloody idea what she would ever do if she actually caught it. Most days, she made it up as she went along. Haraella always had a plan? Don't make her laugh. Her life was nothing but snap decisions and failures.

Worst of all, she pretended she was okay, that dreams didn't haunt her, that she was as stable and balanced as the next person. She pretended she was _good_. Somewhere along the way, she had started to believe it too. Kill this Baratheon so her family could live? That seemed like a fair trade, something right. Take over Volantis to ensure security? What else? Transplant herself in a foreign constituency, rule over state, over people she had no idea about, no customs or cultural knowledge, and just hope for the best? Why not? Use her dragon to infuse fear in possible enemies? May as well! Once establishing a secure standing, invade and conquer a land she had never seen the shores of? Take back a throne that, perhaps, might not be a Targaryen's right anymore? Start a fuckin' war for a bloody chair? Yes, very sane decisions there, Haraella! Very fuckin' sane! All the while, pretending she had the moral high ground so maybe, just maybe, for once, she could live with herself? Oh, no one pretended as good as she.

Her numbing hands slipped free, warmth flooding back into her cramping fingers as the man eased them off his arms. His skin was clear, pale, unmarked. It infuriated her. Then they were moving, him holding her hands, slowly leading her forwards, his face still so close, towards the bed.

"Come to bed…"

What was one more pretence? After all the sins she had committed, the sins she _will_ commit, what was one more on her long list? He was right, it wasn't really him, so why was it so wrong? Why was it wrong to be selfish, just this once? Why was it wrong to want to be touched? Loved? Alive? Why was it wrong to want to feel something other than pain? In abhorrent, repulsive truth, some part of this man, some part of this circumstance, some little seed of it, must have been in her mind for the creatures to invoke it out of her. It must have been. How else would they have done this? Why else wasn't she shoving him away and vomiting? Haraella knew it deep down, in the very back of her mind where she kept all the horrid little dreams and thoughts she obstinately pretended didn't exist, she had conjured herself, that some little bit of this, the want and need, had been there, inside of her. Why was it wrong to take advantage of that? And so, she acknowledged it, spoke his name, thought it, and made it real.

"Viserys…"

He pulled away an inch, twirled her, and the back of her knees met the bed. His hands interlocked with hers were the only thing keeping her standing. He smiled at her then, and there it was, the softness, the _real_ Viserys. It was all devoted lips, yearning brightness and keen teeth. It was exactly what she wanted right then, all she wanted… And it was that smile and what he said next that brought her crashing back into herself with a breaking sort of realisation.

"I love you."

No. No he didn't. Not the real Viserys. No one loved her. Not this way. Why? Because she wasn't a good person. She was a vicious, wrathful, dogged fool. She got up when she should stay down. She pretended to be sure when she was scared. She faked being okay to keep on going. She took when she had no right. She fought and spat and bit… And she would continue to do so. Was it right for her to insert herself into Volantis? No. Yet, she did and she would do so again to keep Viserys, Aegon and Daenerys safe. Was it right for her to try and take back a throne her predecessors had lost through their own follies and failures? No. But the throne was the only sure means Haraella knew of that could guarantee long-term security for Viserys, Aegon and Daenerys. It was what they wanted, what they had fought for, for so long, and continued to fight for, no matter what she said or did, it was what they needed, and so Haraella would take and she wouldn't ask. Was it right for her to war with this Baratheon when he had, not personally, done her any harm? No. But he had caused harm to her aunt, cousin and uncle, he continued to do so with every sell-sword and mercenary and assassin caught in Volantenese walls. He had slain half her family, even if she had never met them, and that was a debt Haraella _will_ collect on.

For them, Viserys, Aegon and Daenerys, she would damn herself. For them, she would set the world on fire and burn right along with it. For them, she would be the villain. She'll get up again and again until it's the other person who can't stand no longer. She'll take the throne through force if necessary. She'll take vengeance in her families name. She'll take a crown and kill a king and put her family on that damned seat if it was the last thing she did because she was _not_ a good person. She was selfish, bloody, warmongering, violent and volatile. And she would do it all with a smile on her face because she had one redeeming quality left in the cesspool that was herself. There was one thing she never, not for one moment, had to pretend with. Her love for her family.

"No. No you don't."

Haraella said with a surety that surprised even her, tone placid and even as she pulled her hands free of his. She wasn't a good person, she was a broken thing, and Viserys, the real Viserys, would never want her. Not like this. And because that hurt, that realisation, it showed her just how fucked in the head she was. The fact that some little part of her, no matter how small, actually wanted anything like this shouted of the depths of her defectiveness. He was her uncle, her family, and here she was, nearly tempted into bed by a perverse apparition of her own trickery. These creatures were in her head, pulling forth her own inner workings, not theirs, ensnaring her by her own fears, hurts and desires, and that meant this Viserys, the idea of him wanting her in such a way, lived in her, somewhere, and she couldn't run from her own mind any longer.

For a heartbeat, for a turn of a clock, for one skip of a pebble on an immense lake, Haraella didn't have to pretend and she soaked it in and buried it deep. With one last steadying breath, she slid her mask back on, strapped it tightly, braced her hands on Viserys's chest, looked at that smile one last time, sure it would be the only time she would get to see such love aimed at her, and pushed. The room burst into sparkling light.

* * *

 **Haraella's P.O.V**

It was odd, this place. Haraella didn't know how she had come to be here, neither could she tell you how long she had been there, only that she was, somehow… Here? There? In a… Place, and she didn't know whether she was dreaming or not. Did it have to be either? Perhaps it was both. Dreams could be real, in a sense. And this _felt_ real. That had to count for something, right? She was poignantly aware of her heartbeat hammering against her ribs, like a war drum thrumming. She could feel the sweat trickling down her back, making her tunic sticky, tight, restrictive. She felt the hot blow of breath seizing her chest, fast, in and out, jagged like a broken sword. She felt heavy and solid, muscles tense and joints locking, and her left arm felt totally asleep, almost none existent. Flicking her tongue across the back of her bottom teeth, she could still feel the fleshy mandrake leaf she had placed under her tongue a month past. Good. Yes. _She_ felt very much real, but the world around her reeked of magic and dreams.

This time, it was harder to come around. Everything was tranquil, easy, a stretch of open road leading to a nowhere in particular. She was reclining on a coach of some sort, on an open veranda in Volantis's palace, the plush velvet easing the rattle of soreness from her bones and cocooning her weary muscles, the Volantenese sun lively and warming her cool skin. She felt like a python, lounging on a sun-rock, lazy and adrift without a care in the world. Something weighty and warm was cradled in her arms, resting upon her chest, and she found herself humming a little tune, sunny and breezy.

Glancing down, Haraella was met with a babe. He, yes, she was sure it was a he, even if she wasn't sure _how_ she was sure he was, was slumbering peacefully upon her torso, as carefree as she felt. He was a precious thing, rounded, plump, bleached lashes resting on flushed cheeks. His hair was straight, more silver than her blinding white, and long for his age, which was barely a year old Haraella would guess. At the abrupt stop of her hummed song, a lullaby long lost by Haraella's memory, his little eye peeped open. Cheerful green clashed with jaded green. He had her eyes, and yet, none of their harshness. Haraella grinned and picked up the tune once more, settling back into the coach, pushing down any weariness or doubt or confusion. There was nothing before. Just this. This balcony, this babe, and this warm, soft heat.

"Ah, how is my Jaemerys this lovely morn?"

Haraella cracked an eye open, glancing to the veranda doors, spotting Aegon standing on the crux of the doorway, elegantly leaning on the wall with a prop of his crossed arms. He was taller now by an inch or two, likely dwarfing her if she stood next to him, and his shocking blue hair was gone. In its wake was a waterfall of liquid silver, straight and gleaming, darker than Viserys tinted locks, a whole shade separated from Haraella's snowy tresses… The same shade as the babes hair colour.

"Jaemerys? Like James?"

Aegon kicked away from the door, strolling towards her, lightly lifting her legs up so he could slip underneath before placing them over his lap. His thumb stayed at her bare ankle, idly stroking the sensitive skin. She felt too lazy to move, too warm and cosy. It was easy here. One, two, three. Simple. There was no need to complicate anything or everything. She could just breathe and exist and hold this babe who was apparently named after her parent.

"Of course. Don't you remember naming your own son?"

Haraella did sit up at this, her legs sliding off Aegon's lap, though she did not fully detach herself from either the coach or Aegon. Her son? She had a son? She squinted down at the babe nestled in her arms, saw his green eyes, Lily's lips, Daeron's dimples, the barer of James's name, and, somehow, it made sense. Yes. This was her son. _Hers_. For a moment, Haraella, perhaps, understood just a fraction of the reason Lily had thrown herself in front of her, a mystery that had partially eluded Haraella for all of her life. This was _her_ son. The grin on Aegon's face reminded her of Sirius and something, a little worm, squiggled in her gut. Nevertheless, the easy wind swept the uncertainties away to thunder another day. How can she worry when it was so sunny? So easy? So… Simple?

"My son? He's mine?"

Aegon slid closer to her side, wrapping an arm around the back of the coach. He had to lean over her shoulder a bit to get a good look at the babe, making him hunch, but his smile never wavered, as he gently reached over with his free hand and rubbed the pad of his finger over the swell of the babes cheek. Jaemerys cooed back.

"Just as much as he is mine."

Aegon said with such an easy manner as he leant down further and kissed her cheek, still stroking and murmuring to the babe, and Haraella remembered a candle lit room, someone on a bed, being pushed against a wall… Wrong… But before she could grab it, the thought was gone, replaced by domestic simplicity. Instead, she glanced to the empty side of herself, frowning.

"Something's wrong. Something's missing."

Aegon's arm fell from the back of the coach, coming to a solid rest on her shoulders, his head lolling to rest his cheek against the crown of her hair. Panic began to set in, but he started humming the tune she had dropped, softly running his hand through her hair, over and over, delicately, tenderly, coaxingly, and Haraella let the tune wash over her, wash away her worries, the apprehensions, the ill sitting gut. There was no room for any of that here. She leant into him, eyes drifting shut. It was so easy to breathe here.

"Aye, they'll be here soon. You know how Viserys gets. When little Rhaella says she wants a toy ship, Viserys buys her a naval fleet. They're down at the courtyard, picking flowers for you."

Haraella found herself humming along to the tune.

"Rhaella?"

On the back of her closed eyelids, she saw a little red-headed girl, with Viserys's grin and violet eyes. Her little dragon flame. Her eyes snapped open. Aegon pulled back, but his fingers kept up that hypnotic stroking. The panic wasn't so easy to shake off this time.

"Rhaella, your daughter? Viserys's daughter? You really don't remember, do you?"

No, she remembered nothing but this veranda, the sunshine, the comfort and effortlessness. With rising dread, Haraella wasn't sure she _wanted_ to remember. Before, It was dark, and gloomy, and-… She remembered pain, and anguish, and struggle, so much struggle, and she didn't want to remember. She didn't want it. She shouldn't question, never question, because then it would all come back, and she wanted this. Just this. The sunshine. The babe at her chest. Family. Sunshine. Peace. That's all. She wanted it, and wanted it, and wanted it until it ran in rhythm to her heart, until it was in every thought, until it was all she was and ever would be. Still, her damned mouth ran off.

"I… This is our son and Rhaella is mine and Viserys's daughter? I-"

Aegon shushed her, pulling her close.

"It's alright. It's just the sun or something you ate. Stay a while and you'll remember."

But how could everything be alright if she forgot her own children? How could it be when she felt that darkness pressing in on her, surrounding her? Why did her arm feel dead? Why couldn't she remember? Why didn't she want to remember? That was wrong, wasn't it? Most people, Haraella thought, would want to know what was going on, why things were happening, why they were the way they were? Aegon pressed a kiss to her temple, soft, easy, and undeniably wrong. This was _all_ wrong. Where was Daenerys? Vaenora? Viserys?

"Stay? No… No, I have to-… There's somewhere I need to be… I just…"

Carefully, Aegon took Jaemerys from her trembling arms, coming to a stand, rocking him back and forth. Haraella stumbled up, spinning, around and around, looking, searching. There was something she needed. Something she was supposed to be doing. But then she settled on Aegon again, standing in the sun, haloed by silver, humming to her son… Their son, and the want was back full force.

"Peace, family and love. There's only this here. No war. No blood. No pain. Just sun, family and simplicity. As easy as breathing. You don't have to fight for it here. You can simply have it. That is what you want, isn't it?"

 _That is what you want, isn't it?_

And the spell was gone, cracked, desiccated. She remembered. Sirius had asked her the same. Viserys as well. Now Aegon. She was still bloody trapped. She was still dying.

"You're not real. My children-. Those things aren't real."

Aegon grinned.

"Who's to say what is real and what isn't anymore? This can be real too, if you want it to be."

Haraella shook her head.

"That's not how the world works. I wish it was. I _really_ wish it was. But, sadly, it isn't. Now, let me out."

Aegon took a step closer, close enough so she could see the babes face once more, but Haraella resolutely turned her head, refused to look. It wasn't real.

"But it can here. Just stay with me."

Pain, excruciating agony, ripped through her arm. Haraella's knee's buckled and she crashed to the floor, groaning, huddling. Straining, she pulled her arm away from her chest and saw nothing but devastation, her skin was blackened, split, seeping and dead. And it was spreading at an alarming rate, quicker than before, right up and over her chest, to her heart. She could feel it, sizzling her pathways, sucking and drying, mummifying her from the inside out. Soon, if she didn't end this, it would be too late to heal, too late to survive… Too late. In the peripherals of her vision, she saw Aegon extending his hand to her, palm up, fingers splayed invitingly. Tom had been her mocking fear, all spiteful and vengeful. Sirius had been her guilt, dusted in shades of sorrow and melancholy. Viserys had been her impulsivity, her veiled desires wearing a mask of pretty seduction. And Aegon? Aegon was her nucleus, her core, the most basic and fundamental things she wished she had, that she wanted, needed, and worked for. Peace. Family. Love. Just three. In Aegon's eyes, she saw what she wanted to become reflected back. He saw something good in her, something worth putting up with her shit for. She wished she was what Aegon thought she was. Aegon was her dream of a simple, peaceful future. She wanted to be the person he was so sure he had dreamed about. In Haraella's jaded world of cynics and politics, in a land of Snapes and Voldemorts, Aegon was like a breath of fresh air after months of drowning.

"That's it, just take my hand and it can all be yours. The pain will stop. The struggle will stop. You can have it all."

Haraella dragged herself to a slumped stand, still clutching at her arm, eyeing up the hand. Would it be so bad to die here, surround by sunshine, family and love? There were worse ways to go, Haraella intimately knew. Would it be so bad to die next to a person who still believed she was worthy? Aegon had dreamed of her, saw her life, and he had not turned away, ran, or shown an ounce of disdain like she thought he would. Haraella didn't know whether she half loved the big bastard for it, or if she cursed him for his own blind foolishness. Here, with Aegon, she knew it could be easy. Simple.

Yet, it was because of Aegon's belief in her, as misplaced as she might have thought it was, that stopped her from taking his hand. If he believed she could become better, that she was better, then perhaps she could fuckin' try. The real Aegon would be telling her Haraella Targaryen wouldn't lie down and take it. The real Aegon would be telling her not to give in. The real Aegon would be telling her to have some bloody hope, you pragmatist twat! Perhaps not in those words, he'd put it more flowery and poetic, but Haraella understood the sentiment. Tom had taught her not to give into her fear. Sirius told her to let go of the past. Viserys had shown her it was time to stop pretending. And Aegon? That little ray of sunshine had told to keep hoping and pushing for betterment. Of herself, of the future, of the world around her. Plus, she hadn't earned her happy ending yet, had she? She still needed to protect her family. She still needed to make her treatment of Aegon up to him. She still owed Daenerys a safe home. And, before she died, she was going to see Viserys carefree. She promised herself that much. Haraella grinned.

"Now where's the fun in that?"

Swiftly, with her waning strength, Haraella bolted to the side, towards the end of the veranda, by the railing of the balcony, and with a yell, she threw herself clean off the side. The sun shattered.

* * *

 **Haraella's P.O.V**

Haraella awoke like she had fallen from a great height, with a jump, a snarl and a healthy dose of adrenalin propelling through her body. The first thing she did was look straight to her left arm, only to find untarnished skin, if a bit on the blue side. Good. It meant her withered arm was only a mental manifestation of her body being exhausted of magic. Bad, because, well, she was being drained of her fuckin' magic. The second thing she did was notice the chaffing around her neck, around her wrists and feet. Thick iron collars were cuffed around her limbs, her wrists and ankles, around her throat. From them sprouted denser chains, sturdy ropes of black iron, pulling her arms taut beside her, spread like wings, pinning her feet to the spot, her neck one leading to a small podium just behind her, chaining her to the ground like a bloody dog. The room was the same as the first, small, circular, with many doors lining the walls, stinking of dirt and rot. Experimentally, she gave a tug to her chains, a foot step from a dark corner forced her to whip back to the front.

The man, if it was such a thing, was thin, nearly devastatingly so. Spindly, bald, his lips were stained blue, and his old robes were half eaten by moths. Perhaps he had been human once, a very, very, very long ago, but now? Now magic had malformed him, twisted him into something _other._ And it was this other that had been rooting around her mind, putting her through hell, consuming her.

"What do you want from me?"

He tilted his head to the side, gave her a sweeping glance, and licked his lips. His tongue was black and thin. Another voice, off to her right, piped up. Haraella's head darted to the side, only to see the exact same man, thing, as the one in front of her. Duplication? Illusion? Transfiguration? Unwittingly, she tugged on her chains again, but her arm stayed straight and true. Fuck. She didn't have her wand. The two, or one, man began to walk around her, circling.

"We're hungry. So very hungry. This land used to be full of magic and belief. Now it's dying and blind. When you slipped through the rift between your world and ours, you brought your magic with you, and in turn, our magic was reborn."

The other picked up from the one that had spoken, and their voice was exactly the same, and if hushed, if whispered, they would sound like the wind. A million voices in one. It was definitely them that had done this to her. Haraella gritted her teeth.

"Through you, we can feed from the magic in your world. Our magic grows with every second you are here."

Haraella rolled her neck and winced as the collar cut in tight. There was no way to wiggle out of the chains, her wand was gone, and if she kept this up, her magic would be too drained to do much more than conjure a bloody pebble.

"I'm a conduit. A lightning rod. You're using me like a crazy fuckin' straw."

This had never been about her, not personally. It wasn't even about her family. She was just the key to the great prize. This was about where she was from. She would be stupid if she didn't admit she had noticed the shift in this place. Magic was rare, scarce, almost unheard of in places. No one knew about America, England, Europe or Asia. But a different world? A whole other dimension? That was a lot to swallow.

"Why not just go to my world? If you want that magic so badly, why not go right for the source? Magic isn't rare where I am from, it's in our DNA, a part of us, we're born with it, it grows with us, infused. One tenth of the worlds population is magically inclined where I am from."

Not that she wanted them to. Far from it. Nonetheless, if she was going to stop them, she needed to know what their endgame was exactly. If this worlds magic was dying, nothing but a wasteland of wilting flowers, and they had still managed to magic what they had with only her magic to feed from, what would they be capable of if they had her worlds magic as a battery pack? Desolation. Nothing less.

"We are not born of that land. We could not stay."

Another one appears, now three, like vultures, were dancing around her.

"Your taking my magic so you can get to my world. With my magic, you can cross and stay, can't you?"

They stopped simultainoulsy, eerily in sync. Mockingly, they smiled and bowed their heads, hands clasped in front of their ragged robes.

"I can't let you do this. I won't let you hurt anyone."

One stepped up, reached for her face, but Haraella reared her head back as far as the chain allowed her to.

"There's nothing you can do. Your mother's love will not protect you here. Your father's spirit has led you into chains. You could have faded serenely in the illusion's we had given you. Instead, you fought and now you will die alone. Forgotten."

 _You have James's heart._

That was what Sirius had told her, wasn't it? And why was that important to remember here and now? What was James renowned for? Oh boy, it was risky. Beyond dangerous. It was foolish. Stupid. Reckless… Exactly up her alley. She had not made the potion, neither had she performed the six-day ritual, but she had the mandrake leaf, right there, hidden in the depths of her mouth, safe and sound under her tongue, and really, the potion was founded on that leaf alone, and the last dregs of her magic. In the old lore, skin-walkers were said to be able to shift since infancy, when the first signs of their magic presented itself. They, the wizarding world, had lost that knowledge, or perhaps, they had bogged it down with intricacies and tradition. Still, she was wandless, nearly depleted, and chained like an animal already. Worst case scenario, she became something half mutated, a crossbreed, trapped and cursed, or perhaps inside out. And if she was going to die, it would be free, chainless, or she'd die trying.

"Everybody always forgets."

Haraella rolled the mandrake leaf out from underneath her tongue, flicking it between her teeth.

"Forgets?"

Haraella smiled and the man saw what was between her fangs, the flash of green.

"James was my father too. I'm as much a Potter as a Targaryen or Evans, and you never back a Potter into a corner."

His hand shot out, grabbed her harshly by the jaw, growling with wide eyes, but it was too late. Haraella chewed and swallowed. The man howled, clawing at her face with sharp nails, cutting into her, but there was nothing he could do. With her last bit of magic, Haraella concentrated, forced it into her gut, balling it, condensing, pushing it tightly around and around. The man reached for her neck, went to snap it before it was too late, but it already was, it always was, and with one last prayer, Haraella let the swirling ball of magic inside blow.

Skin ripped and muscles burst, bones cracked and elongated, hair shredded, and blood boiled. The man was sent sailing back, the other two cowered, the room shook as the chains and collars shattered, the roof caved in and the back wall was blown completely out as limb and tail and claw erupted forth, as tooth and scale gleamed. And with one expansive breath, the room was engulfed by raging orange fire. The screams of the men were drowned out by the roar of a dragon.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** We are in Westeros!

 **VOTING:** I've carefully read what everyone had to say, taken a lot on board, and hopefully come to a solution everyone will like. Most of you were right, it was mean of me to suddenly change the pairing half way through the story, when most had already invested in it. I'm sorry if I've upset anyone, it really wasn't my intention. And I do value what you guys have to say, I really do. All that being said, this fic is staying as a **Viserys/Haraella/Aegon** fic. Nothing is changing.

HOWEVER, I am going to be releasing a new fic for all those champions pulling for Jon Snow, called _In The Ruins of Our Glory,_ which will be a **Fem!Harry/Jon Snow** fic. It will be quite different to this one, Fem!Harry isn't going to be Haraella, but she is a Targaryen. It will also be lighter then this fic, more family orientated. And the Martells play a HUGE role within it (The Martells are my favourite house). I'm in the process of writing up the prologue, and the first chapter should be published next week, Saturday/Sunday. For a little teaser, here is the summary:

 **In The Ruins of Our Glory.**

Through Rhaegar's folly, a kingdom shattered, blood was spilled, and a legacy was burnt to ash. It's up to his children to create something beautiful in the ruins of the Targaryen's glory. When little Rhaenys Potter runs away with Norbert into the forbidden forest, Westeros will never be the same. Fem!Harry/Jon. Parental!Oberyn

I hope this makes up for the drama I caused, and I hope everyone is at least a little satisfied with the outcome lol.

Thank you all for the favourites, follows and reviews! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you have the time, drop a review. Until next time, stay beautiful~ _AlwaysEatTheRude21_


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